Destiny Swap
by hrhrionastar
Summary: In Reckoning, Richard and Cara are sent to the past, instead of the future. Can they get back without changing anything? AU, multiple pairings, rated for violence, minor character death, and incest - Richard/Jennsen.
1. Ancient History

**Ancient History**

_The past is a foreign country…they do things differently there._

Power.

Richard could feel it running through him, lighting his veins on fire—

Confession was a tug, an undertow dragging him down—Orden was like a dragon's breath, hot and corrosive and fascinating—

Then the jarring twist, sudden agony—the magic inverting and rebounding over his head, a storm breaking—

Nothingness. Empty space. Empty time.

Richard's eyes were open, but all he could see was gray.

And then—

"Crown the May Queen! All blessings on Creator's Night!"

Young, carefree-looking people in pastel colored clothing danced before Richard's bewildered eyes, wearing crowns of flowers.

A sandy-haired man who seemed vaguely familiar pushed a woman gently toward a makeshift throne in the center of the clearing.

The woman laughed and turned her head, and Richard gasped. "Shota?" he asked incredulously.

It was at that moment that the agiel connected with the back of his neck.

* * *

><p>Cara was not having a good day. One moment, she'd been about to bring the Seeker to his knees before Lord Rahl—the next, she found herself in the middle of a Creator's Night celebration. There was no sign of Lord Rahl, her Sisters, the First Wizard or the Mother Confessor.<p>

And there was_ singing_.

Cara pressed her agiel to the back of the Seeker's neck while he was still staring around in astonishment, and wished she'd brought a collar and chain with her.

A good Mord'Sith was always prepared…but this situation had to be the strangest she'd ever experienced.

"What are you doing?" a sandy-haired man inquired, smiling in a disturbingly friendly way.

"I am taking the Seeker to Lord Rahl, and I don't advise you to get in my way," Cara said drily.

"Nonsense!" the man said, still smiling. "There hasn't been a Seeker of Truth in almost a thousand years! But if you want to see Lord Rahl, I can take you to the Palace—although I'm afraid he's a bit busy at the moment—the Queen just had a baby, and she's ill, I'm afraid."

"Queen?" Cara demanded suspiciously. "What Queen?"

"Queen Nila, of course," the woman with the long hair and smug expression said. "Are you sure you're from D'Hara?"

"And—the prince's name?" Cara asked breathlessly.

"The christening isn't until the day after tomorrow—" the sandy-haired man said.

"Just. Tell. Me," Cara demanded, her fingers tightening around her agiel as she fought to keep her emotions under control.

"My old friend Panis is planning on calling the boy Darken, I believe," the man said mildly. "Don't understand it, myself," he added, as an aside.

Cara stared.

At her feet, the Seeker stirred—"Kahlan?" he asked blurrily, and then his eyes sharpened—he made to leap to his feet, but Cara took a firm hold of his hair to keep him down. She didn't plan on letting the Seeker evade her grasp, not when he was suddenly the only familiar thing in what she was very much afraid was—

"Zedd?" the Seeker gasped.

"Ah," the sandy-haired man looked pleased. "I see my fame precedes me. But it's Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander, if you don't mind. _First Wizard_ Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander, actually."

"Where are we?" the Seeker asked despairingly. "Where's Kahlan?"

Cara bit her lip, to keep from voicing her own suspicion—that she and the Seeker had somehow been stranded thirty-eight years in the past.

* * *

><p>"You know Panis Rahl won't have any idea who you are," Richard was saying reasonably. "And if you tell him that you and I are from thirty-eight years in the future—well, would you believe it?"<p>

The Mord'Sith didn't answer right away. She had insisted on taking Richard before Lord Rahl as her prisoner, whether that Lord Rahl was the same man Richard had been sent to defeat, or his predecessor. Richard privately thought that she was clinging to the command structure in the hopes of escaping the disorientation of their sudden temporal displacement, and couldn't blame her.

Thirty-eight years in the past. He, Richard, hadn't even been born yet—and Zedd was obviously not going to be much help.

Richard remembered the way his grandfather had been looking at Shota (whose appearance was nearly unchanged, from the future), and shuddered. There was something off about that (why hadn't Shota aged? And since when were she and Zedd so chummy?)—not to mention Zedd's referring to Panis Rahl as 'my old friend.'

Just what was going on here?

Zedd had offered to show the Mord'Sith the way to the People's Palace, a suggestion she had rejected with scorn, in spite of Zedd's airy assurances that he had to be there in a few days' time for the christening…

The christening. Of Darken Rahl.

Richard couldn't help but hear Zedd and Kahlan in his head, telling him his destiny was to kill Darken Rahl, the evil tyrant who had been responsible for his own father's death, his birth mother's, all his agemates in Brennidon…

Yet he could not imagine any of them would have predicted that he would be sent to the past, to confront his enemy as a helpless baby.

Every feeling recoiled—yet surely he ought to do something? Darken Rahl was going to grow up to be a murderer. Richard knew that, knew it for a fact in a way no one from this time possibly could.

It was logical to kill Darken Rahl, baby or not.

"It doesn't matter," the Mord'Sith said firmly. "I must report to Lord Rahl."

Richard, clutching the bag that still held two Boxes of Orden (he'd buried the third in the dirt under Shota's May Queen throne while the Mord'Sith and Zedd argued, guessing that he would have to return to that exact spot to complete whatever powerful magic might yet return him, and the Mord'Sith, to their own time), worried very much about what would happen when they met Panis Rahl.

What sort of man was he? Richard had grown up in Westland and had no knowledge of the history of the Midlands, much less D'Hara. Come to think of it, weren't they still in the Midlands?

Yet not only Zedd, but none of the Creator's Night revelers had seemed surprised to see a Mord'Sith appear out of nowhere. A little alarmed perhaps, but not surprised.

Which suggested the Mord'Sith were already a staple of Midlands life, meaning the war had already begun long before Darken Rahl could do more than cry…

But all those things were comparatively unimportant. Richard needed to get back to his own time before he irrevocably altered the past—Kahlan was depending on him. Who knew what might be happening to her right now?

Or did he mean who knew what _would_ be happening to her—Richard sighed inwardly. This was not what he'd imagined when he'd accepted the title of Seeker.

* * *

><p>"My Lord, I have brought you the Seeker," Cara said loudly, forcing the Seeker to his knees before Lord Rahl, where he belonged.<p>

Although this Lord Rahl was blonder, weaker, less attractive…

Dear Creator—to think of Darken Rahl as a helpless infant!

"The Seeker of what?" Lord Rahl asked. His voice was too quick, his eyes too bright, with a light Cara didn't care for. "The only thing he'll find here is a Keeper-cursed good party! Do stay for the christening, why don't you, Mistress, er…?"

"C—Cate, my Lord," Cara said carefully. For some reason she couldn't articulate, she didn't trust this other Lord Rahl.

For one thing, Darken knew the name and face and training history of every Mord'Sith under his command—he always said it was impossible to forget someone after you'd given them the living Breath of Life, but Cara thought that he knew those things simply because they were the kinds of things Lord Rahl _should_ know.

As she'd been about to say her own name, some instinct had warned Cara against it—and, in truth, she _did_ remember some story circulating among her Sisters about the mysterious Mistress Cate—Dahlia had invented all sorts of impossible theories about her.

"Well, Mistress Cate, why don't you and your prisoner make yourselves at home? Tomorrow is the crown prince's christening—don't miss it; my old friend the First Wizard will be there."

Cara's eyebrows rose almost to her hairline—so _that _was how it was. But if Panis Rahl and the First Wizard were that close, why was the Wizard helping Darken's enemies? Or rather, why would he be in thirty-eight years' time—

"Very well," she said abruptly, and pulled an unresisting Seeker after her out of the throne room. She barely remembered to salute, one fist over her heart.

It was a Mord'Sith's duty to serve Lord Rahl—any Lord Rahl.

But Cara could not imagine remaining here, not now that she'd seen the shocking lack of organization, the complete disregard for the danger the Seeker represented—and the Wizard hadn't even been afraid of her! It rankled.

"Look, Cate," the Seeker said easily, keeping pace with her.

"It's Cara," she said, after a momentary glance around to see that they were unobserved. "Mistress Cara."

"Cara," the Seeker said. "And I'm Richard. Listen, how about a truce, at least until we can get back to our own time. You can't tell me you want to spend the rest of your life like this—an assumed name, always on your guard lest you say something that could get us both burned at the stake."

"Burned at the stake?" Cara asked curiously. "Traitors are usually tortured to death slowly, over a matter of weeks. Whom have you seen burned at the stake, Seeker?"

"No one," he said, looking a little embarrassed. "But in Westland, witches are—well, anyway…I told you to call me Richard."

Cara rolled her eyes.

* * *

><p>The Mord'Sith—Cara—seemed to be coming round, which was at least a relief, but Richard had to find out how to get them both back to where—when—they belonged.<p>

He didn't know what he was going to do after that.

He parted from the Mord'Sith at the door to the spacious chambers Panis Rahl had sent a servant to prepare for them, and wandered the Palace aimlessly, looking at tapestries depicting fierce battles, and wondered, in an idle sort of way, what it would be like to grow up here, surrounded by all this glorified violence.

He rounded a corner and collided with someone, and only as he was apologizing did he realize it was Shota.

"Thank the Creator," Richard said fervently, "I really need to talk to you."

"I sense…much pain from you," Shota said, when Richard had pulled her into a nearby empty room. "Tell me what troubles you."

With this encouragement, Richard launched into his tale. "—and so if I don't get back to my own time and defeat Darken Rahl, his tyranny will extend over all the Midlands and many more innocent people will die and Kahlan—I'm so afraid for her, but I have no idea what to do—I don't even know how Cara and I ended up here!"

"Let's see," Shota said briskly. "You combined the magic of Orden (to think it exists after all!), Confession, and agiel. And somehow that transported you thirty-eight years into the past. I think it's obvious what you have to do: you must find a Confessor and repeat the conditions of the initial experiment."

"And that will take me back to my own time? To Kahlan?" Richard asked.

"Probably," Shota said, briefly touching Richard's shoulder in a gesture of support. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I must have a word with Caracticus—if you're right and the prince will grow up to become a tyrant more terrible than any in the history of the world—" She left, muttering to herself.

Richard wondered who Caracticus was, but dismissed the question as unimportant.

Now he knew what to do—now he knew how to get back to Kahlan.

Things were definitely looking up.

* * *

><p>Cara couldn't bring herself to sit still. She hated the rooms Panis Rahl had given her and the Seeker, and longed to go down to the Mord'Sith Headquarters and pick a fight with whoever most resembled Denna, but knew that was an inefficient use of her time.<p>

Instead, she found herself wandering the halls until she came to the nursery. A glare alone was enough to send the lone maidservant on duty scurrying all the way back to her home village, and Cara walked over to the crib.

Darken was a beautiful baby. Of course, Cara thought. Seeing him like this brought a lump to her throat, as she remembered their son—she'd only had a glimpse of him before he was taken, but she'd thought how much he looked like his father must have, as a baby.

Now she had the visual evidence: the only thing, she thought, reaching out to touch Darken's head with one gentle, ungloved finger, was that her son's hair, such of it as there was, had been blonde.

Darken watched her, eyes wide and serious. Though she knew it was impossible, Cara felt as though he were seeing directly into her soul.

"I'm going to fix this," she promised softly. "Somehow."

And without another word, or a backward glance, she strode out of the room.

Richard—the Seeker—found her by the Queen's bedside. Cara was staring down at her, lost in thought.

"Zedd said she was ill," Richard said, coming to stand beside Cara. "It looks to me like she's dying."

Cara made a vague noise of agreement, watching the gentle rise and fall of the Queen's chest. Her skin was pale, and she looked somehow shrunken—she might have been beautiful, otherwise. She was older than Cara, but not by very much.

It made Cara…uncomfortable.

"Why isn't he trying to heal her?" Richard asked, sounding frustrated.

"I hardly think the Wizard is most concerned with _Lady _Rahl," Cara said drily.

"There must be something we can do for her," Richard said, and Cara glanced at him in surprise. He actually sounded concerned.

"We can't," she said, as impassively as she could. "Darken Rahl's mother did not live to see his coronation. And we have to get out of here before we cause such a disastrous breach in the space-time continuum that the entire world is destroyed."

"You're right, of course," Richard sighed, and turned away from the dying Queen. "Space-time continuum?" he teased. "I didn't know they taught that stuff in Mord'Sith school."

Cara just glared at him.

"Anyway," Richard said, still sounding a little amused (what was wrong with her? She used to be able to terrorize people like him in her sleep), "in order to get back to the future, we need a Confessor, which means—"

"Aydindril," Cara finished grimly.

She hated the thought of leaving the Rahl family to its own devices, but they had little choice.

* * *

><p>It took them three weeks to travel to Aydindril, and Richard grew more worried with every step. All he wanted was to see Kahlan again and hold her in his arms—<p>

But every step away from the infant Darken Rahl, from the blasé Panis Rahl (did he know his wife was dying? How could he be so calm?), from Zedd, who was so different from the man Richard knew as his grandfather, felt wrong. Richard had a duty to the people of the Midlands, and, although he knew Darken Rahl was a tyrant, it was hard to imagine that a man who could ignore his own dying wife would be a kind and just leader.

And if there was already war between the Midlands and D'Hara—how could Zedd, and the Confessors in Aydindril, have let things get to the state they had before Richard had come to the Midlands?

And what would happen if he and Cara did return to the future—would she go back to trying to kill him?

Richard determined to try and convince her of Darken Rahl's evil. Surely she knew what a dangerous man he was.

"How long have you known Darken Rahl?" he asked, that first night.

"Since I was a girl," Cara said shortly.

Richard waited, looking sympathetic.

"I hate this," Cara said softly. "He's so vulnerable, and—Creator, Panis Rahl makes me itch to ram my agiel down his throat—" her fists clenched. "I don't even know_ why_, although from what Darken—Lord Rahl—hasn't said about his childhood—"

She broke off, with an ambiguous gesture.

"We're going to get back," Richard promised, disregarding the almost inevitable end of the truce, when they did.

Suddenly, Cara's entire attitude changed—she smiled at him, and Richard swallowed. It was a very…significant smile.

"Would it be so bad?" she asked, her voice dipping low in a way that went straight to Richard's blood. "Being stuck here? We could…comfort each other."

Fascinated, Richard didn't move as Cara's hand went to stroke his cheek, and her lips met his…

It was interesting, he told himself firmly. That was all—interesting, that Cara was so different from Denna—so practical, so brave in the face of being lost in time—interesting, that she used lust to distract from her real feelings…

He pulled away. "I'm in love with someone else," he said quickly, thinking of Kahlan—her smile, the way her hair flew in all directions when she fought, how she had risked everything to help him on his quest…

"Who said anything about love?" Cara purred, her hand moving to Richard's throat, and then her fingers gently tracing their way down his chest…"I'm talking about pleasure."

"Let's just…go to sleep," Richard said, not liking the nervous edge to his voice. "We have a long way to go tomorrow."

Cara raised her eyebrows, but she settled in beside Richard under their one blanket, and obediently shut her eyes.

Richard's skin burned where it touched hers.

* * *

><p>"I hope you're not going to march into the Confessors' Palace and<em> explain<em> things to them," Cara said drily, as they approached the city of Aydindril.

"I met the Mother Confessor before Kahlan," Richard said, a little uneasily. "That…might not work."

"So you have any sort of plan at all, or do you just want to grab one of them and hope for the best?" Cara said sarcastically.

"Of course not," Richard said seriously. "She might kill you."

Cara snorted. "I don't think so."

Confession might be deadly to a Mord'Sith, but she was not helpless. And Confessors were a wishy-washy bunch, anyway. Lord Rahl thought they could rule the world if they chose, but Cara didn't see that ever happening.

"Maybe if we just…" Richard said, but he was interrupted by a loud shriek from over the next hill.

He raced toward the screamer, and Cara followed, muttering, "Of course, saved by the helpless damsel in distress."

Richard, Cara had already learned, had a weakness for rescuing people. She never would have dreamed there were so many cats in trees and young people escaping from importunate relatives in the Midlands, much less than Richard would con her into helping them, all without revealing his own name or title (he had that much sense, at least).

There was something about Richard—an extra connection that Cara rarely experienced with anyone but Darken. (If she didn't know better, she would guess he was a Rahl himself, but that was surely impossible.)

Cara reached the top of the hill and took the scene in at a glance: Richard was fighting a group of ruffians, clearly amateurs, who surrounded a young girl with a good set of lungs for screaming and pale brown hair.

With an inward sigh, Cara drew her agiels. _Why_ she spent her time rescuing Richard from peril—but if she didn't, they would never return, and the past was simply not the right place for them. Every day felt like a tightrope, as Cara fought not to meddle in the past, for fear of changing it.

It was just as well their route had taken them nowhere near Stowcroft.

Cara saw what was going to happen a moment before it did—Richard's opponent pulled a wickedly curved dagger from his boot and made to sink it into Richard's stomach, angling upward—

Richard, half-turned to meet another attack, would never be able to stop it, and Cara was much too far away—

Impossibly, the blow didn't land; there was a flash of light and then the man staggered away from Richard, screaming—his clothes were on fire.

Richard, looking wild around the eyes, pointed a finger at another man—he too caught fire.

The little girl screamed even louder.

"How did you do that?" Cara asked, when all their opponents were dead or still running. "You're a wizard," she answered her own question.

Richard stared in shock at his hands. "I guess so," he said.

"Help! Who are you people? What have you done? What's happening?" demanded the girl.

"I'm R—we're friends," said Richard. "We're looking for a Confessor."

"Oh." Impossibly, this seemed to reassure the girl. "That's all right, then. I'm a Confessor. My name is Rega. Are you my Wizard? My mother says everyone—all of us Confessors, I mean—has got to have one."

"Well, no, I'm not your Wizard," Richard said, throwing away, in Cara's opinion, a perfectly good cover. "Actually, I'm from a different time, and I was wondering if you could help me—"

"You saved my life," the girl said brightly. "Those men were going to kill me! They said one more Confessor in the world is one too many, and I couldn't get away and—do you think there're any more?" She looked around, obviously frightened.

"I thought everyone in the Midlands worshipped Confessors," Cara said, puzzled. Surely it was only in D'Hara that a Confessor's touch was rightly feared—didn't they rule the Midlands? Or hadn't they, before the war? Or were they simply shockingly remiss, letting a girl that age wander around all by herself and nearly die?

"What do you want me to do?" the girl asked bravely.

Cara grabbed Richard's sleeve and pulled him a few steps away. "You think we can just kidnap this girl?" she whispered fiercely. "It took us three weeks to get here, remember, and if you think I don't know you hid the third Box of Orden—"

"I had an idea about that," Richard said, a little dazedly. "Come on."

He grabbed Cara's hand, and the girl's on his other side, shut his eyes, took a deep breath—

Cara hated teleportation. It made her so itchy.

* * *

><p>It worked! Richard opened his eyes, and he and the Confessor, whose cheerful willingness to help him in his quest reminded him of Kahlan, and Cara, were standing in the entrance hall of the People's Palace.<p>

Unfortunately, Panis Rahl was also standing in the entrance hall.

"You!" he shouted, striding toward them, and drawing his sword. "What have you done to my son? I thought Zedd was the only Wizard worth his salt in my entire kingdom—well, and his father, I suppose—but you! I mistook you for the Mord'Sith's prisoner, but she's been your creature all along!"

Richard heard a faint snort of protest from Cara. He fought not to smile, recognizing the peril in which not only he, but Cara, Rega, and all of the Midlands now stood.

"What happened?" Richard asked, in what he hoped was a calm and reasonable voice.

"My son is dying," Panis Rahl said grimly. "Murdered by magic—by you."

He lunged for Richard, who ducked, caught a glimpse of Cara running up the stairs, her braid flying behind her like a banner, and of Rega hiding in a corner—the sword whistled through the air where Richard's head had been seconds before—

"I swear to you, I didn't harm your son," Richard said, raising his hands placatingly. _Though not for lack of trying,_ he thought grimly, _What am I going to do? If Darken Rahl is dying, that's a good—so why do I feel like this could ruin everything?_

"Do you have any idea—I have an heir at last, and I will not let you jeopardize my throne!" Panis Rahl yelled. "Who else could it have been?"

Richard blinked, trying to readjust his thinking. Since when was his throne more important to this man than his son? And what about his wife? Richard supposed she was dead by now, too, and felt a surge of pity for Panis Rahl—a man who couldn't even realize what he was losing.

A man who would never care for a child in the loving way Richard's parents had. If Darken Rahl did survive—what he must have survived! How many more magical assassination attempts were there going to be? How could anyone live like this?

"I assure you, he's telling the truth," Rega said loudly, stepping out of her hiding place. "I'm a Confessor, and I know."

Panis Rahl stared at her for one bewildered moment, then turned and shook his head—"Women," he was muttering, but Richard was already halfway up the stairs, grabbing Rega's hand as he went—

Now was not the time for further debate, and Richard didn't relish the thought of getting into a duel with the wrong Lord Rahl—particularly without his Sword, which he missed nearly as much as Kahlan and Zedd—

By the time they got to the nursery, Cara was already gently placing the infant Darken Rahl back in his crib.

"Well?" Richard asked, more sharply than he'd intended.

"He's alive," Cara replied. There was a strain around her eyes. "I think the magic is gone—I got here just as he d—died, and I gave him the Breath of Life."

"Was there no one even watching him?" Richard asked, bewildered. Just what kind of nursery was this?

"The baby died?" Rega asked, wide-eyed.

"We should go," Cara said harshly. "Now."

"Wait," Richard said, thinking fast. He couldn't bring himself to murder a baby—this situation had certain parallels with the incident of Dennee's Confessor son, but Richard was from Westland, where they had strict ideas about infanticide, as well as other forms of murder (he struggled daily with his conscience concerning all the D'Haran soldiers he was forced to kill)—but maybe, just maybe, he could still change things.

Richard had a duty to save the people from Darken Rahl's tyranny—but what if he could do that without killing him?

This journey to the past presented a rare opportunity—the chance to make things right before they ever went wrong.

"I want to heal the Queen," Richard said firmly.

* * *

><p>It couldn't be as simple as Richard wanted to make it. Cara was sure of that.<p>

And yet…

The three of them made their way to the Queen's rooms. They were, if possible, even more deserted than the nursery, where at least there had been a few telltale signs of servants and Mord'Sith. The Queen's rooms were completely empty, and the Queen herself was almost exactly as Cara and Richard had left her—pale and lifeless, she seemed even more sunk into whatever illness or weakness held her in its grip, but she did still breathe—and that was surprising in and of itself.

Cara wondered how long she would hold out—this slow fading away was a nightmare to a Mord'Sith. The thought of dying alone, in bed, without even any attendant, Sister or slave, was truly horrifying.

"Okay," Richard said, taking a deep breath and extending his hands to hover over the Queen's chest. "I've never done this before, so—" but he didn't complete the thought.

Cara and the little Confessor girl watched helplessly, Cara with one ear on the hallway outside, just in case Panis Rahl elected to run counter to the habit of years of marriage and see how his dying wife was—but he was doubtless still busy with whoever had poisoned Darken—

Cara knew it hadn't been Richard, she'd been by his side for weeks now for one thing—but he had just discovered all this magical power—to think, she could have used it against him—

Odd, how that hadn't occurred to her until now.

But why would Richard care about restoring to life a woman whose only son was his archenemy?

To think the Queen was lying here, helpless, while someone had tried to murder Darken—Cara could imagine how she must be feeling. Or how she would be feeling, if she ever woke up—

At last, Richard lowered his hands. His face was drawn and pale, but triumphant.

There was a small silence, and then the Queen coughed.

Cara breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving, not sure why she cared so much—this was a woman who had died before Cara herself was ever born. And yet—she knew what it was to be the mother of a Rahl.

Was her son all right? She could only pray that he was, that the Dragon Corps men weren't being too hard on him, that there hadn't been an accident—Darken would have told her, surely, if he had been at Trelhinn when the rebels burned it to the ground—

"My son?" were the Queen's first words. She blinked blearily up at them. "Is he all right?"

Richard smiled, a relieved smile. "He will be, now."

Cara waited until Richard and the little Confessor had gone, promising to catch them up. She wanted a moment alone with the Queen.

But when Cara looked back, she saw the Queen was sleeping again—it was no longer the sleep from which she would never wake. Even as Cara watched, color was returning to her cheeks.

Slowly, Cara drew the journeybook by the bed toward herself, sinking down to the floor and pulling her spare dagger from her boot.

It was a little known fact about journeybooks that if you stirred the blood three times counterclockwise and muttered a line of verse about promises and apple trees, the message you wrote would not be seen by any but its intended recipient, and not until they were in great peril and had need of the message.

Cara returned the journeybook to its proper place and stole through the Palace to the clearing where she and Richard had first come to this strange time.

As she passed the Mord'Sith Headquarters, she had to restrain herself from carving, _Mistress Cate was here_, over the doorway.

* * *

><p>Richard put together the Boxes of Orden for what he devoutly hoped was the last time, and Rega put her hand around his throat just as he'd requested.<p>

(She'd been doubtful, but Richard had reminded her that the Creator had given her this power for a reason, and that he really did need her help.)

The familiar rush of the magic surrounded him, going to his head, and then Cara was there, her agiel a sharp point of agony at his neck—

Richard welcomed the pain. They were going home.


	2. There But For the Grace of God

**There But For the Grace of God…**

It was unbelievable! Queen Nila Rahl fumed—that Panis should deliberately conspire to murder his own son—

Prophecy! She'd never trusted it, and if Panis listened to the ravings of a power-hungry witch like that Shota, the more fool he—

She moved about her rooms, throwing cloaks and gowns haphazardly into a pack, and then her eyes alighted on the journeybook by her bed—

_Use the backstairs. They go directly to the meadow by the stables. Once you're out of the Palace grounds, ride for Deerfork, but turn north just a few miles outside the town. Darken will be able to find the entrance to the Old World. It's the only place you'll be safe._

The Queen put a hand to her mouth, shocked and a little apprehensive.

But she collected five-year-old Darken, and followed the strange instructions.

And when Panis Rahl next came to the nursery, all he found was an empty room—and an artistic smear of blood on the sheets.

"Assassins have murdered the prince!" he cried, jumping to conclusions with a vengeance.

(It took him almost a week to realize his wife was missing as well.)

* * *

><p>"I just don't know what to do!" Taralynn Zorander wailed.<p>

Awkwardly, Zedd patted her on the shoulder. He had only reconnected with his nineteen-year-old daughter a few years ago, and she was already so grown-up that it was hard to know just what he could do for her.

But something had happened, and she'd come to his doorstep and said, in a proud, broken-hearted voice that cut him to the quick, "I didn't know where else to go."

"You slept with him and you didn't even know his real name, his family, his occupation—what were you thinking?" Zedd demanded.

Taralynn raised her tear-streaked face to his. "It wasn't like that," she insisted. "He was good, and kind to me, and—but then, afterwards—he changed, Father!"

"Did he hurt you?" Zedd asked urgently, his fingers twitching with held-back Wizard's Fire.

"N-no," Taralynn said doubtfully. She hugged herself, still shaking. "He changed—physically. And he turned into—"

The door burst open, and Zedd raised his hands to smite down whomever dared interrupt his daughter's tale, helpless fury coursing through him—

Several Mord'Sith surrounded the Zoranders in seconds.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you, Zedd," the man in the doorway said grimly.

"Panis?" Zedd gasped.

Taralynn shrieked and swayed toward Zedd, her arms still protectively curled around her torso.

"What are you doing here?" Zedd demanded, the shock of seeing Panis again all but banishing Taralynn from his thoughts—he didn't see the Mord'Sith at all. "I told you I never wanted to see you again—murderer! You killed my father!"

"He killed my son," Panis said grimly, and Zedd stared, because everyone knew Prince Darken hadn't disappeared until he was five years old, almost nine years ago now, which was long after Caracticus's death.

"Father, he—he—" Taralynn quavered, bowing her head so that her hair obscured her face. The Mord'Sith made disparaging noises, and Panis ignored her.

Zedd's eyes narrowed. "Stay away from my daughter, Panis," he threatened. "And _get out of this house_!"

"Oh, no, old friend," Panis said, almost sadly. He gestured to the Mord'Sith. "I'm afraid both of you are coming with me."

* * *

><p>"And so I really think it would be best for dear little Darken if the two of you relocated to Thandor," the Prelate was saying smoothly. "Developmentally speaking, there will be other children of his own age there, and he'll be able to really hone his abilities in a good environment."<p>

"All right, Prelate," Nila Rahl agreed, her hands folded neatly in front of her and her eyes respectfully lowered under her veil.

Nila was such a good woman, the Prelate thought complacently. So agreeable.

"And of course, you know you will always have a home with us, Sister Nila," she said warmly.

"Thank you, Prelate," Nila said humbly. "Your generosity in taking me and my son in remains the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me. I pray your goodness will not go unrewarded."

"Have no fear of that," the Prelate smiled. "The Creator knows I am Her most faithful servant. Safe journey, Sister Nila," she added, rising and offering her hand regally to Nila. "Sisters Verna, Grace, and Elizabeth will accompany you to Thandor—may the Creator watch over you and your son."

Nila bowed her head respectfully, and went out.

"It is a pity we must lose Sister Nila," the Prelate commented regretfully to Verna, who stood beside her. "Such a good daughter of the Light. But that boy—" She shook her head over the child. Six years old and already he thought he had the run of the Palace!

"I have always thought he showed great promise," demurred Verna.

"Oh, yes," the Prelate said fervently. "A little too much promise, I think. He is a disruptive element—do you know, that Spell of Misdirection of his had me lost on the way to my own office?" she shook her head incredulously. "But that's not what we must speak of," she added, after a moment. "Sister Verna, I have a solemn task for you…"

* * *

><p>Jennsen Rahl quickly followed her brother Richard into the world. Taralynn Zorander Rahl made a faint protesting cry when the girl was taken from her arms, so soon after her birth—<p>

But she was powerless here. Panis Rahl named her wife, for no reason that Taralynn could see, save perhaps to give legitimacy to their children.

But she did not—could not!—belong here. All she wanted was to go home, her children in her arms, and live in some peaceful cottage somewhere…

The days when Lord Rahl did not visit her, she could almost believe the dream.

That night, Taralynn snuck into the nursery, careful not to awaken her maidservant, the guard Lord Rahl had set over her. She had no idea why he feared her escape, since, if he had ever bothered to know her at all, he would have seen that she would never leave her children.

Richard was awake still, his deep brown eyes wide in the darkness. Taralynn pulled him up into her arms, and carried him over to his baby sister's crib. "This is Jennsen, darling," she said softly, so her voice wouldn't sound hoarse with tears. "And I want you to always, always remember to take care of her. Do you think you can do that, my little prince?"

* * *

><p>"Mother, Father says you're sick," Kahlan said solemnly, hugging her toy dragon and wishing she was still allowed to put her thumb in her mouth. She stood hesitantly by Rega's bed. "And I mustn't disturb you."<p>

She was so young, but already Rega's elder daughter spoke with the practiced ease of the wonderful Confessor she would one day become.

Rega blinked the tears from her eyes and held out her arms to her daughter. Kahlan climbed up beside her and snuggled close. "I love you, Mother."

"And I love you, my dear Kahlan," Rega said. "So much."

After awhile, Kahlan's eyes drooped, and she slept in her mother's arms, clutching her toy dragon close. "I wish I didn't have to leave you," Rega whispered. "My brave little girl."

* * *

><p>"Why aren't you teaching Jennsen embroidery, or whatever it is women spend their time doing all day?" Panis Rahl asked irritably.<p>

He'd been having a bad day, full of tedious meetings, and when he'd gotten to the nursery to check on the children he'd found Taralynn encouraging Jennsen to throw darts at the wall—those were Richard's toys, for the Keeper's sake! Didn't Taralynn know anything? It was lucky she came from such a powerfully magical family—otherwise she'd be completely useless.

"Of course, my Lord," Taralynn said submissively, but Panis caught her glaring at him from behind her hair. Why didn't she wear it up, like a proper lady? His first wife—now what was her name…? had always been the model of a true lady. "Jennsen practices her embroidery in the mornings."

"Good," Panis said casually. "Good, that's good—wouldn't want Lord Naft to be disappointed in his bride—a girl that can't even embroider, what a disgrace—"

"Bride?" Taralynn demanded sharply. "What do you mean?"

Richard paused, about to throw another dart to match his sister's, as if suddenly sensing the tension. "Jenn-Jenn," he said, "Let's play blocks."

The two moved unobtrusively away.

"I've arranged a marriage for Jennsen with Lord Naft, from the North," Panis said shortly. "She'll leave on her seventeenth birthday."

"She's three years old!" Taralynn burst out. "And you're already talking about marrying her off like some—like she's your property? How could you! And Lord Naft, he's much too old for her! She'll be miserable!"

"How dare you talk to me like that?" Panis demanded, angry now. "I know what's best for this family—"

"Family!" Taralynn exclaimed bitterly. "You kidnapped me and forced me to—and what have you done with my father? How dare you even mention the word family to me! What kind of monster are you?"

Panis had had enough; yanking Taralynn up by her hair, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her like a rag doll. "Don't you dare question me! You are nothing but a slave! I've been kind to you for your father's sake, but if you think—" there was a loud crack, and Taralynn was suddenly a dead weight.

Panis realized he'd broken her neck.

Breathing hard, he threw her body aside and stormed out of the room to find someone to clean up the mess—completely forgetting his two wide-eyed children.

* * *

><p>"Why do you keep me here?" Zedd asked, looping his elbows through the bars of his prison. His Rada'Han was cool around his neck.<p>

Panis stood panting before him, eyes wild and hair disarranged—he looked like he'd seen a ghost.

But, as he watched Zedd, an almost sweet smile graced his lips. "Old friend," he said, "Why ask questions to which you already know the answer?"

"At least let Taralynn go," Zedd begged. "What do you want from her?"

"I needed an heir. You must see that," Panis said reasonably. "After Caracticus murdered my son, Darken—"

"That's not what happened," Zedd said stubbornly.

"Who else could it have been?" Panis demanded. "You know as well as I do that mysterious young wizard and his pet Mord'Sith couldn't have done it; I checked his magical signature myself—didn't match anything I'd ever seen before…"

Zedd wondered idly about that himself, but assumed, vaguely, that the mysterious young man (wizard? He didn't remember that) had been some countryman of Panis's first wife, Nila. She'd definitely come from some outlandish place, across the Strait of Sorrows…

Panis blinked. "Anyway," he said, coming closer. "You have to come back to me. We could be great together, you know that—with you by my side, I—"

"Could conquer the known world?" Zedd said drily. "No doubt, but I—Creator, Panis, don't you see what you're doing is wrong?"

Panis stiffened. "I'm sorry you feel that way," he said, and left.

But Zedd knew he would be back. He couldn't stay away—the more fool he. The more fool both of them.

* * *

><p>"I can't see you," Dahlia whimpered. "Cara? Are you there?"<p>

Cara reached out blindly, and caught the other little girl's hands in hers. Her body was one tightly coiled ball, except for her questing fingers. It was so dark here—she missed Father and Mother and Grace, and home and the stream and even Miss Cranton—"I'm here," she whispered. At least she still had Dahlia.

"Good morning, girls," Miss Cranton said brightly, as the door creaked open—and for one impossible moment, Cara thought she was here to rescue them—they were going home—

Miss Cranton's hair was pulled back, and her smile was harsh. She raised her weapon, and it hummed ominously. Cara and Dahlia shrank back, terrified.

"My, my," purred Miss Cranton. "We do have a lot to learn."

* * *

><p>Jennsen parried Richard's practice sword with relative ease, but he disarmed her in another several moves. This fencing stuff was hard—but Jennsen was determined. Anything her brother could do, she could do, too.<p>

Together, they had explored the attics, swum the moat, reenacted the great Battle of the Arduen Desert…Richard was the one constant in Jennsen's life. Although she was a year younger, they were as close as twins.

He was the only person nine-year-old Jennsen could ever remember loving. She assumed she'd loved Mother, of course, but Mother had died when she was little, and only remained in Jennsen's thoughts as a dark-haired woman who cried a lot.

And Father—Jennsen didn't love Father at all.

Richard was just about to put away the practice swords when Father came striding toward them—and he never watched Richard's fencing practice.

"What," he demanded furiously, "are you doing?"

Richard and Jennsen looked at him, each adopting their most meltingly adorable expression. "Nothing," they chorused.

"Nothing!" Father scoffed. "How I ever deserved two such idle children—Richard, what have I told you about your practicing? Under no circumstances is Jennsen allowed to watch you, or worse, help you. No son of mine should need help from a woman, especially not an unnatural girl like her, who begs me to let her share your fencing lessons when she should be practicing her embroidery. And you!"

He grabbed Richard's arm and squeezed; Richard scowled.

"There's some muscle there," Father conceded. "But you're lazy! And so short!" he let Richard go, but stared at him disapprovingly. "I swear to the Creator, you've always been a disappointment. If your brother had lived—"

Surreptitiously, Richard and Jennsen exchanged a significant look. Not another lecture about their perfect, dead older brother—if nothing else, he couldn't be perfect if he was dead, could he? And the way Father went on about him, you'd think he was some kind of saint, sent to save the world. Like in a story.

Jennsen didn't believe in that sort of story.

"Anyway," Father said at last, running down. "I've decided Jennsen is going to learn the womanly arts, whether she likes it or not. Lord Naft isn't going to want a hoyden for a wife! She'll go to the D'Haran Ladies' Seminary tomorrow."

Jennsen's heart almost stopped—she cast a panic-stricken glance at Richard. To be separated from him—she didn't think she could bear it. Being away from Father would be no hardship, of course, and there was no one else in the Palace—or, indeed, the world—that she would miss.

But Richard—!

He squeezed her hands, looking as horrified as she did. But Jennsen saw something else in his expression—a tightening of his jaw, a stubborn gleam in his eye…it was ridiculous to think Richard would able to stop Father, of course.

But if anyone could, it would be Jennsen's brother.

* * *

><p>Darken had just finished a long and tedious book about the history of magic, when Sister Candace led two girls into the main hall. They were obviously new—the elder one was about eleven or twelve, two years younger than Darken and as such much too young to bother with, ordinarily, but there was something about her—she looked nervous, but determined. And her eyes seemed to look right through him—which was ridiculous, since no one could tell what Darken was thinking, not even Mother, if he chose to conceal it.<p>

The other one was more nondescript—a few years younger, and shy. Darken dismissed her as a baby.

"Everyone, this is Miss Kahlan Amnell, and her sister Miss Dennee Amnell," announced Sister Candace. "They'll be joining us for classes here."

Kahlan. Pretty name. Darken smiled welcomingly at her. Maybe she'd be interesting. Thandor was getting a little dull, now that he'd successfully played at least one clever trick on all the Sisters of the Light and every older student to study here…

"Hi," he said, when the sisters took seats near him for class. "I'm Darken Mirané. It's really nice to meet you."

"You, too," Kahlan said politely. Her smile was really lovely, Darken thought.

"Listen," he said impulsively. "I could show you around, after class, if you want—I know a secret passageway to the roof; you can see for leagues in every direction."

Kahlan hesitated. "I'm not supposed to—" she paused, and glanced at her sister. "Can Dennee come?"

"Sure," Darken said generously, and was rewarded with another smile.

Yes, he thought smugly, as Kahlan belatedly looked toward the front, things were looking up. He might just have found a friend.

* * *

><p>"When I was a boy, my father made sure I wouldn't be a weakling," Father said grimly. "And now that your sister's out of the way, I'm going to do the same for you."<p>

Richard waited, a little apprehensively. Jennsen had been gone for nearly a year—why would Father still sound so annoyed with her? Richard knew she loathed the D'Haran Ladies' Seminary, of course—her letters were very evocative, conveying more than he wanted to know about torment between the lines of etiquette.

"Remember," Father said, pulling Richard along, "You are a Rahl. I want you to show it."

How? Richard found this remark confusing. Short of cutting himself and letting the blood flow, how was he supposed to show he was a Rahl? Father always said he was terrible at magic lessons, but that much Richard had already gathered: his magic was in his blood.

"Of course, Father," he said aloud.

They stopped at a door. It was an ominously heavy door past which Richard was not allowed. He and Jennsen spent most of their time going places they weren't allowed, of course, but this was different—the lock was newer, for one thing.

Father unlocked the door, and pushed Richard gently inside. There stood a waiting Mord'Sith, who grinned at Richard in a way he didn't care for.

"Go easy on the boy, Mistress, er…?" Father said gruffly.

"Gertrude, my Lord," she replied, almost contemptuously.

Of course no one dared talk to Father that way—

Richard studied Mistress Gertrude with sudden interest, as well as apprehension. How badly would she have to think of Father to let even that tiny amount of disdain into her tone?

The door shut behind Father, and Mistress Gertrude beckoned Richard closer. "Do you know why you're here?" she asked.

"No, Mistress," Richard replied promptly. Politeness was his first defense.

"Your father," Mistress Gertrude said, "wants you to learn something."

It wasn't long before Richard was valiantly trying to hold back his screams—Mistress Gertrude's contempt lacerated his nerves almost as much as her agiel did his skin—

But he would be brave. Father had sent him here. And all Richard wanted was for Father to be proud of him.

* * *

><p>"We're here to take Richard Rahl to the Palace of the Prophets, where he will be trained to use his Han," the lead Sister of the Light was saying smoothly.<p>

General Trimack, standing near the door, watched Lord Rahl for the minutest facial expression.

The three Sisters of the Light, while not preciously an invasion, were certainly an inconvenience—and, much as General Trimack disliked young Lord Richard, it was utterly inconceivable that Lord Rahl would let these women, for all intents and purposes, kidnap his heir.

Particularly not after the disaster with his first son…

"Why do you feel such extreme measures are necessary?" Lord Rahl asked.

"Richard Rahl is the first War Wizard in three thousand years," the Sister of the Light said earnestly. "His training could mean the difference between life and death for all creatures. Where is he? We must ascertain how much of his power he's already accessed."

Lord Richard spent his afternoons either fencing or studying, and would be quite easy to find, now that Lady Jennsen was gone. General Trimack waited for the order, but it didn't come.

Instead, Lord Rahl smiled. "Your errand sounds urgent, Sisters," he said. "Why don't we discuss it…over dinner?"

General Trimack remained, at Lord Rahl's request, and while the Sisters had their eyes closed, reciting a prayer of thanksgiving to the Creator, Lord Rahl pulled a small black bottle from his sleeve, and poured two drops into each of their wine goblets. He winked at General Trimack.

"When may we see Richard Rahl?" the lead Sister asked again. "How old is he?"

"He's fourteen," Lord Rahl said. "And he will be down directly for your inspection, Sister. He is a true son of the Creator."

"Of course," murmured the Sister, and sipped her wine.

Afterward, Lord Rahl gestured vaguely at the bodies—"Clear this mess up, will you, General?" he asked. "You understand, I know—I would have permitted them to teach Richard, but as things stand I cannot allow him to gain any knowledge of his own powers—already, he has experimented with dark magic, and I fear—" he took a breath. "I fear he may indeed prove the difference between life and death for all creatures. He is…a dangerous child, and I could not take the risk these women represented."

"I understand, my Lord," General Trimack said, putting a hand over his heart and sinking to his knees. "I am honored by your confidence in me."

Poor Lord Rahl—he was surrounded by enemies. General Trimack would do anything in his power to protect his Lord.

* * *

><p>"I'm a Confessor," Kahlan said lightly. "You can't lie to me: did you or did you not turn the sugar to salt at the Head table?"<p>

Darken smirked down at her, from where he lay curled against a higher branch than the one Kahlan clung to. "Guilty as charged, I'm afraid," he said lazily. "So, I've been meaning to ask: what, exactly, is a Confessor, oh wise one?"

"You know," Kahlan said, sobering at once. "I—it's my duty to—and then they—" She floundered, hating this. The truth was, she had no very clear idea of what it meant to be a Confessor either. Soon, she'd be going to Aydindril with Dennee, and then she would learn—learn properly, not like what she'd done when Father made her—

But that was over with now.

On days like these, just spending time with Darken in the autumn sunshine, it was hard to remember that she wanted to go to Aydindril at all.

But it was her duty—and even at sixteen, Kahlan knew the importance of duty.

"Well," Darken asked, leaning precariously downward. His hair, which was longer than most boys wore it, almost brushed Kahlan's nose. She giggled, nervously. "I know you don't Confess someone the instant you touch them. Or else," he added, reaching down with one finger, touching her nose gently—"I wouldn't be able to do this."

"I'd never Confess you," Kahlan protested, torn between laughter and something else, she couldn't quite define. "You're not a criminal—in spite of salt in Sister Candace's tea."

"Did you see Sister Marian's face?" Darken asked, diverted. Or was he merely pretending to be diverted? It was so hard to tell with him—"That'll teach her to make the younger ones all sit inside and write lines just because she can't keep track of that invisible kid—"

"But what about your mother?" Kahlan protested, charmed in spite of herself. Of course, Darken would defend the younger ones—if any of them dared follow him around adoringly, he got so annoyed, but as soon as there was an injustice done, he was up in arms—he was such a contradictory person.

"Mother knows better than to take sugar with her tea," Darken smiled. "After all these years…awful for your teeth, too, you know. I was researching an antidote only the other day—"

And he was off, happily explaining some obscure magical experiment that Kahlan didn't understand. She watched the way the light played across his hair, the way his eyes lit with enthusiasm when he spoke, the way his lips were so soft…

She was definitely going to miss this.

(Having a friend with whom to spend her days—nothing else. Of course not.)

* * *

><p>At last, the day came when Kahlan had to depart for Aydindril.<p>

"You will write me," Darken informed her. "Even after you become all important."

She smiled tremulously. "You know I will."

Darken drew her hand in his, and then raised it to his lips in a courtly gesture he remembered from somewhere—only he turned it over and kissed her palm, wherein rested the power she hated and loved so much—she didn't realize that she loved it yet, of course, but presumably that was what Aydindril was for.

(Personally, Darken had never understood why everyone in Thandor talked about it like it was the Creator's Garden, but he hoped Kahlan would be happy there.)

Sometimes, Darken would catch a glimpse of her when she thought he wasn't looking, and he would see the fear in her eyes—and he knew it was fear of hurting him. Of taking him with her power.

He wanted that fear to be gone. He didn't want her ever to hesitate, to hate herself because she was afraid she was a monster. He saw the shadow of her childhood in her eyes, and recognized a kinship there, something he wasn't yet ready to explore himself.

But it helped him understand.

"I'm going to miss you," he said. It seemed inadequate.

Kahlan smiled again, and turned to go—but then she was back, and she threw her arms around his neck and whispered, "In case I never see you again, Darken, there's something…you should…know…" And she kissed him.

Darken returned the kiss enthusiastically, actually lifting her off the ground a few inches—

It was amazing—and it felt so right, having her in his arms—

"Kahlan," he protested, when she broke away.

Her eyes were sad again, but he caught a glint of mischief in their depths, and knew his own held an answering gleam. So much for everyone who had told him, "Do be kind to the Confessors—but not too kind. We don't want any accidents."

And then Kahlan was off to find her place in the world, followed by Dennee, and Darken walked slowly back toward their favorite tree, missing her already.

* * *

><p>"Lord Rahl is coming, Lord Rahl is coming!" Dahlia shrieked.<p>

They all gathered at the window, each pretending to be bored and sophisticated except Dahlia, whose honest anticipation was refreshing, Cara felt.

Pity she didn't share it—she knew that, as Mord'Sith, it was their duty to serve Lord Rahl; she just hadn't seen much evidence that he was worthy of their devotion.

Nor, when he called her forward to receive the Breath of Life and managed to mispronounce her name (Cah-rah: how hard could it be?), did she change her opinion.

"We're so honored, Lord Rahl," Denna said, in her fake-sweet voice. "We hope you won't be too disappointed in us." And then she fluttered her eyelashes at him.

Cara rolled her own eyes upward. This was just demeaning.

* * *

><p>"Creator, I missed you so much!" Richard hugged Jennsen tightly, finally able to welcome her home properly after hours of tedious ceremony—Father was terribly excited about her betrothal to Lord Naft, it was the only reason he'd let her come home at all—<p>

There was no way, of course, that Richard was letting Jennsen be sent away to marry some Northern Lord they'd never even met, not now that he'd just got her back—

In all justice to Lord Naft, though, he had sent Jennsen a lion cub as a betrothal present—she loved the creature, and had already named him Precious.

"Never, never again," Jennsen said fervently. "I don't care what Father does to me, I won't embroider."

Richard had to laugh. "I love you, Jenn-Jenn," he said, smoothing back a lock of her fiery red hair from her cheek.

She smiled at the nickname. "Richard," she said, and everything seemed contained in that one word—a bond that could never be erased.

* * *

><p>"Love. Romance. Even friendship with outsiders," Mother Confessor Serena said. "That is what we can never have. Never. Do you understand me?"<p>

Kahlan tried so hard to be a good Confessor—but her mind dwelt often on Darken, and their farewell kiss—and the truth was, she didn't understand.

Why shouldn't she have love, and romance, and friendship? Didn't she deserve happiness?

If Mother Confessor Serena was to be believed, the answer was no. Kahlan still shivered when she remembered the training in self-denial—hunger she wasn't allowed to satisfy, thirst she wasn't allowed to quench—and that memorable night in the cold without so much as a blanket. All the young Confessors had been in bed for a week with fever, and they'd feared most seriously for Alana—

The worst part was how ashamed she was—because Kahlan could not erase her own needs and desires, no matter how much she tried.

Her letters to Darken contained no mention of this, and she knew it was impossible that he could have guessed what she really wanted was for him to rescue her.

Foolish girl, she thought angrily. She was a Confessor—she shouldn't need rescuing.

* * *

><p>"I think there's something going on between Father and the new blonde Mord'Sith," Jennsen announced, just a few short weeks before she was supposed to depart for the North. She would be married before her seventeenth birthday—or she would if Richard couldn't stop it. (He'd debated poisoning the Northern ambassador, but it felt like cheating, somehow—poison. Ick.)<p>

"Which one?" he asked now. "Cara? Sandy? Anemone? Dahlia—no, she isn't really a blonde—is she?"

"No," Jennsen said impatiently. "I mean the_ really_ gorgeous one. I've seen you staring at her enough times…"

"Oh, Denna," Richard said, on a note of comprehension. Denna—she was fascinating, there was no denying that…and she wasn't afraid of anything. She was something else. "—and Father?"

"He knows her name," Jennsen said significantly, and Richard stared. This _was _serious.

And what if—the last thing he and Jennsen needed was another half-sibling Father would love more than he did them. They heard enough about sainted Darken as it was.

Richard thought long and hard about how to approach Father, but in the end he decided he would just come right out and ask: "Are you sleeping with Mistress Denna?"

"My dear boy," Father blinked, "you'll understand these things when you're older, you know."

Richard, who was quite old enough to understand, actually, and who found the whole idea disgusting (not least because he liked Denna himself), scowled. "She's only a year older than Jenn," he pointed out.

Father looked blank.

"Jennsen," Richard clarified. "Your daughter." (Father had the worst head for names of anyone ever—)

Father frowned. "Thank the Creator she's going to the North soon," he said. "Can't abide a pack of women about the place—not counting the Mord'Sith, of course. When your mother was alive—and my first wife, Darken's mother…women are all servants of the Keeper, Richard. Never forget that."

But Richard was thinking of something else—he was thinking of Father sending Jennsen away to marry some old doddering Lord, and of his mother, whom he barely remembered…

"How did Mother die?" he demanded abruptly.

"That's over and done with," Father said. "Don't rake up the past—I can't abide it."

"But she wasn't sick—" Richard insisted. He remembered Mother crying, and he remembered her singing to him…now that he reexamined those memories, Mother seemed very young. She had had clouds of dark hair and dark circles under her eyes, and she was never ill.

"Shut up!" Father yelled, getting red in the face. "Creator, you are just like her—a weakling! What I ever did to deserve a son like you—I'm surprised Mistress What's-Her-Name couldn't break you—" Richard remembered that test—he'd hoped Father would be proud of his endurance, but all that he'd been left with, after a harrowing three days, were bruises and disappointment. "I am surrounded by idiots!" Father raged, getting up and pacing the room. "You should be grateful your mother didn't live to infect you with even more of her pathetic whining! You've been a disappointment to me, always—if only your brother had lived, you might've shown some backbone and killed him as the prophecy said—that would have been a deed worthy of a Rahl! Instead you come crying to me about your mother and sister—soon they'll both be gone, and good riddance! You—"

Richard sat very still, letting his father's words wash over him like poison. He had quickly passed beyond anger, into something almost like calm—and there was a strange ringing in his ears.

Dispassionately, he watched his father getting redder and redder, screaming at the top of his lungs…Panis Rahl was like a caricature of a tyrant, all bluff and bluster and petty, sneaking violence…

Was the real reason he wanted to send Jennsen away because she reminded him of their mother?

Cold certainty flashed through Richard—he would never make his father proud. And he was tired of trying. At seventeen, he was already twice the man his father would ever be, because_ he_ honored his obligations.

"Father," he said, getting to his feet. And then he drew his sword and ran Panis Rahl through.

Richard felt nothing.

There was the light whisper of petticoats, and then Jennsen brushed a tapestry impatiently aside and entered the room. She pursed her lips at the sight of Father dying on the floor, and then she kicked him, hard. "That's for finishing school," she said firmly, and then she turned to Richard, clearly dismissing Panis Rahl from her mind forever.

Richard smiled. Jennsen always made him happy.

* * *

><p>Richard had saved Jennsen's life—she could think of it no other way, and she shivered when she thought she might even now have been on her way to the North.<p>

There was something thrilling about seeing him there, sword still wet with Father's blood—he was her hero. The only one she trusted, the only one who ever cared for her.

Jennsen ran to Richard and hugged him, almost sending them both toppling to the floor—he laughed, and whisked her back behind the tapestry, down the corridor…at last, they were alone in Richard's rooms.

"You did it!" Jennsen exulted. "Lord Rahl," she added, peering at him through her eyelashes and laughing.

"Don't you forget it," Richard laughed back, and then he was kissing her—

It was not a brotherly kiss.

And Jennsen didn't want it to be.

When they broke apart for air, she saw in his expression that he was going to pretend he'd been going to kiss her cheek, and she put a finger over his lips. "It's okay," she said softly.

It was better than okay. She'd wanted this for so long—and the thought of how much the world might disapprove thrilled her.

"Are you sure, Jenn-Jenn?" Richard asked. He was still holding her, and Jennsen was very conscious that they were alone.

She shrugged, a wicked little smile playing about her lips. "You know we've always done…_everything_ together."

She saw in Richard's eyes his awareness that this was different—and saw him make up his mind. "I love you, Jenn-Jenn," he breathed, his fingers tightening on her sleeve and his other hand tangling in her hair.

* * *

><p>Darken stood at the window, watching Alcea walk back to the village, without really seeing her.<p>

Why couldn't he have married Alcie? She was smart and pretty and interesting—the daughter of the blacksmith in the next village. Her aunt and uncle sent eggs and other essentials to the Sisters of the Light in Thandor, always nervous, on account of all that magic, but polite and helpful anyway. Alcie was just like them—she was good. And she was ordinary.

Darken couldn't get a decidedly _extra_ordinary girl out of his mind.

"I quite thought you and Alcea might marry," his mother said calmly, from the doorway. She crossed to the window, and pulled him gently down with her to sit on the bed. "Would you like to tell me about her?"

"About who?" Darken asked, smiling in spite of himself.

"The girl you do want to marry," Mother said.

"It can never happen," Darken sighed. "She's a Confessor, and anyway, she's too good for me."

"Kahlan Amnell?" Mother asked. "Does she love you?"

"I think…maybe she does," Darken said, thinking of the letters. Some of them made him wonder about Aydindril, and Confessors, but he trusted Kahlan. Being a Confessor was part of her. And her duty, as she repeated often enough, was to take a mate, to continue her line, and never to let herself be swayed by love. He knew she wouldn't take him as a mate—their friendship had terrified her when he was still within reach of her touch. In some ways, writing letters was easier.

But if she was going to go on with her life, why shouldn't he? And yet he couldn't get her out of his mind—or his dreams.

"She's afraid of Confessing me," he told Mother, not sure why he was confiding all this. But if ever he'd needed his mother's advice, it was now.

Mother pursed her lips. "She should be," she said tartly. "But…I never heard of anything, magical or otherwise, that doesn't have a cure or an antidote or a counter-acting agent of some kind. I suggest you try Eldoria first—my homeland. We have a very rich magical history, you know."

Darken nodded thoughtfully. What Mother said made sense. His own magical experiments occupied much of his time and interest, and it would certainly be interesting to investigate his mother's home country.

"Will you accompany me?" he asked, thinking of the Sisters of the Light. Mother seemed happy in Thandor, but she would always, no matter that she wore the robes of a Sister of the Light and attended middle mid-morning prayers and all the other ceremonies, be something of an outsider. It was one of the things he and Mother never spoke of, but he knew that neither of them quite belonged here.

"I can't," Mother sighed. "It would violate the treaty my people made with your father. Actually," she said, taking a deep breath, "that's really what I came to speak to you about—you've always been Darken Mirané here, but the truth is…you are Darken Rahl. Your father—I don't know if you remember him, but—" she floundered.

"Only a little," Darken mused. Just enough, in fact, that he didn't need to hear the rest of the story—he knew Mother had had her reasons when she left, taking him with her.

"He's dead now," Mother said quietly. "Your father."

Darken tried to feel some sadness about this fact, but mostly he was interested in the results of Richard Rahl's succession in terms of the Midlands, the people he knew…Kahlan. Panis Rahl had not been popular, but the Resistance to him had been mainly in the upper classes—a sort of fastidious disdain. He'd had the sense, or the disinterest, to leave the peasantry alone. It would be interesting to see what tack Richard Rahl took—

With a start, Darken realized that this meant Richard Rahl was his brother.

"Mother," he asked, after a long, thoughtful moment. "If Panis Rahl is dead, why are you worried about breaking the conditions of the treaty? He'll never know."

"Yes," Mother agreed, "but, you see, _I _would know."

* * *

><p>It was a day like any other, except that Denna happened, quite inexplicably, to drop her agiel, whereupon it rolled away into a corner, while she was passing the open door to the new Lord Rahl's study.<p>

(She might have been a little distracted by how utterly gorgeous he looked, bent over a stack of papers and nearly tearing his hair out with frustration…but that was neither here nor there.)

And then Lady Jennsen popped up right in front of Denna, grinning and holding out her agiel, hilt first, like it was nothing. "You dropped this," she said, and Denna stared.

"Thank you," she said, taking the weapon and wondering how this was possible. "Are you…were you ever trained—? I mean—didn't that hurt?"

Lady Jennsen shrugged. "No," she said, so simply that she had to be telling the truth.

Instinctively, Denna looked at Lord Rahl—he seemed all right. Alive and breathing, anyway. So how—?

"Mistress Denna," he said, looking up. "Was there something in particular you found curious…?"

"Is Lady Jennsen immune to magic?" Denna asked, pointblank.

"That's not possible," Lady Jennsen scoffed. She tossed her bright red hair back, and Denna was immediately fascinated by the way it caught the light from the open window. Lady Jennsen looked like her head was on fire. It was…beautiful.

"I don't know," Lord Rahl said thoughtfully, turning away from his papers with evident relief. "Remember that assassin, the summer before you turned eight? You drank half my glass of poisoned milk, but only I got sick, and Father's most useless magician, Ulysses, swore it was magic of some kind…"

"I remember," Lady Jennsen agreed. "You were ill for a week—it seemed like forever."

There was a thoughtful pause.

"Well," shrugged Lady Jennsen, "that's interesting."

Then she sauntered over to Lord Rahl, draping herself over his lap, and added playfully, "Enough taxes for one day, don't you think?"

Lord Rahl grasped her wrists, and she twisted until she was facing him, on his lap—then he let go of one wrist and started tickling her—"I don't need magic to make you beg for mercy!" he said, amidst her laughter.

Regretfully, Denna turned to go, sure they'd forgotten about her, but—

"Mistress Denna," Lord Rahl called. "We could use your expertise, I think…"

Lady Jennsen held out one white hand. "Do stay," she said, in pure ladylike accents. Then she giggled.

It really was the most adorable sound Denna had ever heard…

Grinning, she stepped further into the room, and shut the door. "I thought you'd never ask."


	3. Seeker of Truth

**Seeker of Truth**

On his way back from Eldoria, in the sixth year of Richard Rahl's reign, Darken heard the tragic stories of far more members of the rapidly growing Resistance than he ever had when Panis Rahl, his estranged father, had ruled.

They were stories of girls taken by the Mord'Sith, stories of husbands, brothers, fathers killed fighting pointless battles over tiny stretches of land…

But mostly they were stories of starvation, or near-starvation, and what people had to do to survive.

Darken listened, and Healed where he could, and tried to sympathize—but he couldn't help a tiny sliver of contempt, in his most secret heart of hearts. These people weren't accomplishing anything; and they were still naively waiting for the Seeker of Truth to come and save them all.

Darken had heard the tales of the Seeker in Thandor, where he'd grown up, but it seemed a foolish story—the Seeker might indeed be a great hero, but why should everyone just wait around for him to appear? Richard Rahl was a danger _now_.

Or was he? Ever since Darken's mother had told him he too was a Rahl, Darken couldn't help thinking his little brother must not be as black as he was painted.

But for Darken, there was cause for celebration in his return—he had done it. He had found a way to make himself immune to Confession.

(It was quite the magical coup; he was considering writing a top-secret scroll about it, for the Wizard's Keep, in Aydindril.)

But before he could find Kahlan and tell her—always assuming she hadn't already taken a mate, but Darken, reading between the lines of her letters, didn't think she had—he would return to Thandor and see his Mother.

She would be anxious for tales of Eldoria, her homeland.

Darken was full of logical plans, but inside his heart was singing, _Kahlan, Kahlan, Kahlan…_

* * *

><p>"Look what I found in the attic," Richard Rahl, the best Lord and the best brother the world had ever seen, said casually, tossing something at Jennsen.<p>

She caught it, easily, and turned it over in her hands. "It's a box," she said flatly. Her fingers pried at the grooves. "And it doesn't even open."

"That's not just any box, Jenn-Jenn," Richard said, looking pleased with himself. "That's one third of the infamous Boxes of Orden."

Orden…it was familiar, somehow. Jennsen frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Richard said smugly, "ultimate power will soon be within my grasp."

"Drama queen," Jennsen scoffed—but she was impressed. If Richard could pull this off—but there was nothing he couldn't do.

He made her so proud.

* * *

><p>"The Resistance is getting a little out of hand," Denna said, leaning back against the pillows and watching Lady Jennsen—who strenuously insisted she drop the 'Lady' in private. Lord Rahl also insisted on informality, something that Denna pretended to disapprove. In truth, she reveled in her special status. The right to call Lord Rahl and Lady Jennsen by their given names was one granted to few.<p>

"Mmm," Jennsen agreed, to show she was listening. Her mouth was full of the curna root Denna insisted she chew every morning—the last thing they needed was a little prince running around. Particularly if Denna wasn't his mother.

(She'd also heard a brother and sister shouldn't have children—but Denna was far more concerned with her own power. And besides, Richard wasn't ready to be a father. He might kill the child, a pre-emptive strike against a rival.)

"We should strike at Aydindril," Denna pursued. "And at once. You know the Confessors are the cultural and judicial heart of the Midlands."

Jennsen spat out the curna root and made a face. "Blegh—culture," she said, and grinned.

Denna smiled back, secure in the knowledge that Jennsen would pass on to Richard what he needed to know. (He was up already, poor man—mediating a dispute between two D'Haran lords this morning. Denna had every confidence that he would summon her, if he needed her professional skill.)

It really was a good system—Richard almost never disagreed with any of Jennsen's suggestions. That and Jennsen's incongruous, sophisticated and innocent charm made even sleeping with Jennsen's pet lion, Precious, draped over their feet worth it.

The Rahls were a package deal—and Denna liked it that way.

* * *

><p>The attack came without warning—or so Kahlan would always remember it, later. The acrid smell of smoke made her cough, as she ran desperately toward the Wizard's Keep—she had to find the Book of Counted Shadows, a magical artifact kept for just such emergencies.<p>

It could only be read by the fabled Seeker of Truth, of whom Kahlan had always made rather a hero. Surely, surely, everything she endured would be worth it, if only someday she might aid the Seeker.

She tripped over bodies in the smoke, and narrowly avoided a sword through the chest more than once.

Her heart was in her mouth, fear for her sister-Confessors making her want to stop and look for them—but the D'Haran soldiers were everywhere (here! How they dared—! Richard Rahl would pay for this, Kahlan swore) and she couldn't afford to waste the time.

But then her resolve was tested in a more personal fashion.

"Dennee!" Kahlan gasped, skidding to her knees on the grass in front of the Wizard's Keep. She didn't even notice her skirts ripping and staining under the assault. "Oh, Creator, Dennee!"

Instinctively, she put her hands to the arrow wound in her sister's chest—but it was no use.

"Go, Kahlan," Dennee choked out. "This…" she held out the Book—"is more important than me."

For one long, agonizing moment, Kahlan hesitated.

Then she took the Book and ran.

She looped her fingers through a bolting D'Haran horse's reins, and swung herself one-handed into the saddle—and then she rode as if her life depended on it.

Not only her life, but that of everyone in the Midlands, depended on Kahlan now. If Richard Rahl would attack Aydindril, there was nothing he would not dare. And the only thing that could be done was to name a Seeker of Truth.

And the only person who could name a Seeker of Truth was a Wizard of the First Order.

* * *

><p>"Aydindril has been taken," Kahlan said wildly. "My sister is dead. We have to find the Seeker. Will you help me?"<p>

It hadn't been how Darken had imagined their reunion, but he rose instantly to the occasion.

"I'm so sorry," he said, holding Kahlan's eyes with his own. They were dry still, and Darken surmised that she hadn't even had time to grieve for Dennee yet. How she must be suffering.

"Where is the Seeker?" Darken asked, sensing Kahlan wanted efficiency.

"I—don't know," Kahlan admitted, biting her lip. "But only he can save us from Rahl's tyranny—and only a Wizard of the First Order can find him."

"Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander," Mother said unexpectedly, and Darken and Kahlan both turned to her. (Darken would have preferred to see Kahlan again in private, but he couldn't deny the urgency of her quest. Aydindril—Richard Rahl must be planning something big. The Confessors were the heart of the Midlands, if a heart that the people of the Midlands occasionally wished they could cut out themselves. This had become more than simple conquest.)

"He was a friend of…my husband," Mother said obliquely. "Long ago. I remember when he was named First Wizard."

"Somehow I doubt Richard Rahl feels as friendly toward this Wizard Zorander," Darken said dryly. He'd heard some…interesting rumors about the Rahl siblings, and his father's death.

"We have to find him," Kahlan said. She was still so pale. "And then he'll take us to the Seeker, and the world will be right again." Something almost like religious conviction filled her face, and Darken had to bite back a sardonic comment about the Seeker (taking his sweet time, wasn't he?). Jealousy would get him nowhere.

* * *

><p>Sister Nila, Darken's mother, having kindly offered to scry for the First Wizard's location, Kahlan allowed Darken to pull her aside into one of Thandor's many empty practice rooms.<p>

As soon as they were alone, Darken caught Kahlan's hands in his. The gentle pressure grounded her, and she remembered how much she'd missed the way Darken never hesitated to touch her.

She raised her eyes to his, consciously letting her breathing slow. It was going to be all right—there was still something to live for, anyway. She had her duty to the Midlands, but she couldn't deny that it made cold comfort, at the moment.

_She would be warm in Darken's arms…_

"Are you all right?" Darken asked seriously. "I'm sorry about Dennee."

Kahlan took a breath, and then walked forward into his embrace, burying her face in his shoulder and inhaling his clean, masculine scent. His arms tightened around her.

But Kahlan stiffened at the thought of her fragile self-control—the headache starting behind her eyes sapped her strength, seeming incongruent with the sweeping force of her power, but better safe than sorry.

"I'll be fine," she said, pulling away. "I am a Confessor. I must not—I can't afford to—" she broke off, making a vaguely frustrated gesture to indicate what she still could not explain, even after years in Aydindril. (_Her home, a smoking ruin—!)_

"I guess this isn't a good time to tell you this, then," Darken said, obviously forcing his voice to lightness. "But I—" he laced his fingers through hers, and Kahlan didn't let go. When they found the Seeker, all her allegiance would be for him—surely she could afford to listen to Darken, her oldest friend. "You don't ever have to worry about touching me," he said quietly. "I found a way to make my soul immune to Confession."

Kahlan stared, amazed and dizzy with wild surmise—how could this be? There was no way, no possible immunity to Confession—how often had she wished she could take back one ill-considered touch—but if he—then she—

"Behold." It was Darken's mother, holding an orb of blue light suspended just above her open palm. In it, lights flickered, making shadows jump on the walls. Kahlan, squinting, could make out what looked like a miniature fortress in its blue depths. "The last First Wizard."

* * *

><p>Darken and Kahlan rode through the night, to find the last First Wizard (and if he really was the last, it appeared they had no time to lose—he must be at least as old as Darken's father, and certainly the place they sought him was in the midst of the D'Haran Empire). They didn't speak, but Darken watched that perfect profile, as they galloped to find a legend.<p>

Was Kahlan thinking of the Seeker? Her perfect hero, the man who would save the world from Richard Rahl? (The world, or the Midlands? Were the two synonymous for her?)

Or was she thinking of Darken—remembering that he was the one who would do anything for her? She didn't even know this Seeker, after all.

The fortress where the First Wizard was presumably being held prisoner looked forbidding enough, if a trifle deserted. Darken cast spells of illusion, to carry them safely past the watching guards.

He and Kahlan walked easily to the front gates.

There, just as the guard was squinting into the gloom, and Darken was reflecting on the unfortunate impossibility of holding up a shield spell and sending a quick burst of controlled Wizard's Fire simultaneously, Kahlan reached out and caught the guard around the neck.

Unobtrusively, Darken reached for the small of her back, liking the idea of a quick fire-test, but she moved out of his reach too quickly.

"Command me, Confessor," the guard said loudly. Darken cast a quick look upward toward the battlements, cursing under his breath, but no one seemed to have heard.

"Take me to the First Wizard," Kahlan demanded in a furious whisper.

The guard unlocked the gate and the three of them wafted through what Darken might laughingly call the security without incident.

"What's that?" Darken asked sharply, at the sight of an open journeybook—a candle flame guttered beside it, and the blood looked fresh. What news could have precipitated them here? Did Richard Rahl know Kahlan had survived?

At Kahlan's nod, the guard peered at the journeybook. "We are instructed to execute the Wizard," he said. "Master Rahl does not wish to house an 'obsolete old fool' even in the dungeons of a remote outpost like this one."

Darken and Kahlan exchanged glances. It seemed they had gotten here just in time.

Despite a horrible premonition that they might find the First Wizard's decomposing remains (the Confessed could be quite literal, after all, and Kahlan had only said, 'take me to the First Wizard,' not specifying alive or dead), they found and released the man without much trouble.

His hair and beard were long and gray, his eyes hard. When they unlocked his Rada'Han, he threw it across the cell, where it struck loudly against the stone. Darken sincerely trusted they would depart before anyone came to investigate.

"First Wizard Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander?" Kahlan asked breathlessly. "I'm Kahlan Amnell, and I—we—all the Midlands, need your help."

* * *

><p>The First Wizard had quickly agreed to Kahlan's plan to save the Midlands from Richard Rahl's tyranny by naming a Seeker of Truth; while she watched in amazement, he summoned the famous Sword of Truth right out of the Wizard's Keep.<p>

Kahlan prayed desperately that the Keep was still intact; but if even her beloved Aydindril could fall—

With a flourish, the First Wizard handed the Sword to Darken, who raised it over his head as if by instinct—

Kahlan stared in astonishment. Weren't they going to find the Seeker?

"Darken Rahl," intoned the First Wizard. "You are the True Seeker. Will you accept the title?"

Looking as stunned as Kahlan felt, Darken said, "I will."

Flames burst into being in a circle around him, and Kahlan barely waited until they died back down to embers before throwing her arms around Darken, hugging him as if her heart would break.

The Seeker was her hero, Darken was her friend—and the mere idea that he might be immune to her power was enough to make all her most secret desires rise to the surface of her thoughts.

And yet—she was putting him in danger. How much, she could only guess.

* * *

><p>Richard woke with a start, sitting up in bed and brushing his long brown hair out of his eyes. Denna would've been awake instantly, but she was still overseeing the destruction and reorganization of Aydindril. Her side of the bed was sadly empty.<p>

"Richard?" Jennsen asked sleepily, pulling herself semi-upright by clinging to Richard's shoulders. She pressed a light kiss to his throat. "What is it?"

"Bad dream," Richard said, bewildered. "I think. Listen, do you remember our older brother who died?"

"Sainted Darken, of course," Jennsen said impatiently. He could almost hear her rolling her eyes. "So?"

"Just wondering," Richard said thoughtfully. "If he really is dead, after all."

* * *

><p>Darken peered at the open book in his hands. Its spine was in disrepair, and he eyed it disapprovingly. "'The truth of the Book of Counted Shadows can only be ensured by the use of a Confessor,'" he read. "So I guess you should take over," he added, trying to hand the book back to Kahlan.<p>

"You really are the True Seeker," she said wonderingly. Darken's lips twisted a little at her tone of surprise. "Then—the prophecy says you are destined to kill Richard Rahl."

A little shocked, Darken turned to the First Wizard—Zedd, as he'd told them to call him—for confirmation. "Yes," he agreed. "And there is no time to lose. I fear Richard Rahl's defenses will not be easy to overcome."

"It doesn't say that," Darken insisted. At Kahlan and Zedd's blank looks, he elaborated: "The prophecy. Prophecies never mention anyone by name, it's always the woman in white, or the man with six fingers—" (And a weird case that had been—Darken had acted as a consultant for the Eldorian authorities, and it had taken them weeks to track down the Six-Fingered Man—) "And I don't believe I'll have to kill Richard Rahl. The man's my brother—there must be a better solution."

Zedd gazed down at him unreadably. "Though they share my blood, the Rahls are no kin of mine," he said seriously. "And we don't have time for such foolish sentiment. I believe Richard Rahl is collecting the Boxes of Orden."

With that, he strode away a few paces, no doubt to brood on the intriguing revelation that he, too, was related to Richard Rahl (although Darken assumed it could not be through either his own mother or father—Mother would have mentioned it. But _Richard's_ mother—) "They?" he asked aloud, frowning. Now that Zedd mentioned it, Darken rather thought there was another one—a sister. She was not well known in the Midlands, however.

"Richard Rahl is your brother?" Kahlan asked, and for a moment Darken was afraid she was going to hate him now, for the family connection that wasn't his fault—and if it was true that Richard Rahl was putting together the Boxes of Orden, Zedd was right, there was no time to lose—"Then that means he stole your throne!" She looked quite irate on Darken's behalf, and he smiled.

Funny—he'd never thought of that before. Lord Darken Rahl? It seemed a familiar name, somehow, but then, until he was five years old he'd grown up in the same Palace from which Richard Rahl presumably ruled.

Strange—to think how easily their lives might have been different. Worse, to think that Richard and his sister had borne that burden in Darken's place…

Darken shrugged these thoughts aside, gripping the hilt of the Sword of Truth. He was the Seeker, and he had a quest to think about.

* * *

><p>Finding Richard Rahl was easier said than done. Every day the three of them rode through the Midlands, stirring up the populace…(Darken seemed to think Richard Rahl couldn't long ignore the tales of the Seeker, returned at last, but there was more to it than that—the people stood in awe of Kahlan the Confessor, but they practically worshipped the Seeker. Darken gave them hope.)<p>

They were also looking for the Boxes of Orden, but according to the D'Haran soldiers Kahlan Confessed, Richard Rahl already had two out of three.

They were running out of time—and that, Kahlan told herself sternly, was the only reason she was worried.

It had nothing to do with her increasing desire to throw caution to the winds and see if Darken was right about his newfound immunity to Confession…

"We can't," Kahlan had moaned, the previous night. Her bodice was already half unlaced, Darken's hands tangled in her hair and her skin tingling wherever she touched him—"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," he told her confidently.

"But what if you're wrong?" Kahlan protested. "I would be condemning all the Midlands—to Confess the Seeker—I couldn't! How you would hate me—or…" She was getting confused—the Confessed _never_ hated the Confessor, that was the whole _point _of—although if Darken didn't stop being so irresistible—

"Or how you'd hate yourself?" Darken asked shrewdly. "But it won't come to that—trust me."

Kahlan wanted to—so desperately. And yet—if she was wrong, she was wrong for all time, and she couldn't do that to Darken. If only he'd fallen in love with someone else, all those years they'd been separated—except that she didn't really wish that—

It was all so difficult.

And now—Kahlan hated the feeling that she was losing her objectivity. Nothing made sense to her anymore, because she saw the world only as it affected Darken, and to a lesser extent his quest to collect the Boxes of Orden and reclaim his rightful throne from his brother. Her duty as a Confessor did not extend to wading through a D'Haran internal matter like the succession…

And more immediately, she didn't know how long she would be able to stop herself from…putting Darken at rather an intimate risk of Confession.

"I must leave you," she told Darken. It took all her courage to walk away and find her replacement (not all her sister-Confessors had been at Aydindril at the time of its destruction), but if it saved him, it was worth it.

* * *

><p>The Mord'Sith appeared not an hour after Kahlan, against Darken's wishes, had left. (Not all his entreaties and arguments had kept her by his side—he'd forgotten how stubborn she was.)<p>

Knowing magic was useless against the Mord'Sith, and not yet sure of himself as a claimant to the throne and hence their loyalty, Darken tried using the Sword against them.

Just how costly a mistake that was, he didn't realize until he woke up in the chains.

"My friends," he said urgently. "Where are they?"

"The Wizard is dead," said the blond Mord'Sith harshly. "And soon, you will beg to join him. I will not grant your wish—you and I will have much time together."

"Before you force me to kneel at Richard Rahl's feet and swear my allegiance to the evil tyrant you serve, depriving the Midlands of their greatest hero?" Darken guessed. It would make sense, as a strategy. Particularly considering how hard it was to convince the people of the Midlands to fight for their own future.

The Mord'Sith looked nonplussed. "As a traitor to the crown, you will suffer untold agonies before you die," she said, as though it were obvious. "But," she added, under her breath, "that _is_ a good idea…if Richard cared about the Midlands…"

Darken stared at her. Although horror filled his blood at the torment she promised, he couldn't help a special thrill of dread for a Lord, like Richard Rahl, who didn't care what his people thought of him. Did he imagine Orden would solve all such problems?

The Mord'Sith stepped closer to where Darken hung in his chains. "Seeker," she hissed, running a hand gently over Darken's cheek, the gentleness of her touch belied by the hatred in her voice (had he made her doubt her Lord, if only for a moment?)—"You will beg me to kill you."

"I will do no such thing," Darken replied calmly, allowing a faint sneer to distort his features. "D'Haran whore." The insult was deliberate—he wanted to know how she would react. Could he provoke her into letting him go? Perhaps with some suitable incentive, such as hunting him down again—she'd find it significantly more difficult the second time. If only his hands were free, he might cast a Spell of Misdirection, make her think she'd already lost him—

She pulled back and growled at him, raising her weapon—it hummed with a faint, subliminal hiss that Darken was alarmed to realize he found faintly reassuring, like a barely-remembered lullaby—

The pain when she struck him with it was less reassuring. Nor, when she regained her temper, did Darken quite like the way she whispered, "I always enjoy a challenge."

* * *

><p>There was something about the way Lara handled her villagers that troubled Kahlan—typically, when it came to a head she had no time to reproach her sister-Confessor. Darken was in danger—through her negligence, had fallen into the hands of the Mord'Sith! Kahlan had been raised to view the Mord'Sith as scarcely less evil incarnate than the Keeper Himself—the thought of what tortures Darken might even now be enduring because of her was intolerable.<p>

Together, she, Zedd and Lara tried to develop a plan for rescuing Darken, but nothing less than direct action appealed to Kahlan—she would go herself.

If she won their freedom—well and good. If she didn't—at least _she _deserved to suffer. Poor Zedd was still weak from his long sojourn in a D'Haran prison, and remarkably taciturn on the subject of Richard Rahl and his sister. Kahlan was sure there was more to that story, but she didn't have time to find out.

* * *

><p>It was amazing how beautifully things went according to plan, Denna mused happily. Not only the Seeker, but the Confessor as well, delivered to her hand with hardly any fuss at all—Richard would be so pleased.<p>

Jennsen, hovering idly in the training room and pulling at Precious's mane, was already pleased—when Denna had sent the Seeker briefly to the Underworld, Jennsen had jumped and clapped her hands.

He stirred with the Breath of Life—"Do it again, do it again!" Jennsen screamed happily.

Denna smiled. It really was lovely, having one's work so appreciated.

(If she chose, the Seeker would beg _Richard_ for his life—and that would be a treat to watch. Where would his precious Midlands be then?)

* * *

><p>"OH, NOT <em>AGAIN<em>," the Keeper complained bitterly, as Darken Rahl's cursed soul disappeared back to the Land of the Living. He'd been in the middle of suborning the man from the Creator's service—just like last time. Were the Mord'Sith getting quicker off the mark? Usually He had at least several minutes before the victim woke again, disoriented and seeing only green for days afterward. But Darken Rahl had already escaped the Keeper once, when a tiny baby. "MAYBE I'D HAVE BETTER LUCK WITH THE BROTHER…" the Keeper mused, thoughtfully_. Someone_ in that pestilential family was going to help Him conquer the Land of the Living, that was all He knew.

* * *

><p>"Kill her," the Mord'Sith said, handing Darken the Sword of Truth.<p>

Kahlan stared in horror, unconsciously noting each bruise and abrasion, but her heart constricting most at the defeated look in Darken's eyes. Was that last glimmer of defiance his buried love for her, or his buried fury that she had abandoned him?

He fought well—better, Kahlan was glumly certain, than she did. On the other hand, he was exhausted—her swifter reflexes kept her out of range of his Sword for the moment—

At the sight of another woman, petite with red hair and elegant black gloves, Kahlan seized the opportunity, open palm reaching for the woman's bare neck—this was Richard Rahl's sister, the murderous woman behind the scenes—worse even than the Mord'Sith, who were so far outside Kahlan's definition of human that the rules scarcely seemed to apply to them—(were they more in the nature of weapons—?)

But as Kahlan's fingers touched Jennsen Rahl's neck, Darken pushed the smaller woman aside, willingly taking her place—"Kahlan," he gasped, and Kahlan felt her own eyes turn black.

"Interesting," the Mord'Sith said lightly, after Darken had fallen to his knees before Kahlan, clutching her skirts in a way no Confessed man would ever have dared do, even if it was that or fall to the floor in a heap—"Tell him to obey me as he would you."

The cordiality of the Mord'Sith's tone was at sharp odds with her razor-edged smile, and the edgy stillness of the other Mord'Sith about them—not least Jennsen Rahl, now standing well back and watching Kahlan in a disconcertingly dispassionate way.

"Darken," Kahlan said hoarsely. "You will obey this woman as you would me."

Darken looked up at her and had the audacity to wink. Some of Kahlan's tension drained away—she had felt her power wash over him, had felt it somehow neglect to take root in his soul—but it was nice to know he was still himself, neither her slave nor the Mord'Sith's. "As you command, Confessor," he said humbly.

The Mord'Sith smiled, body flowing easily into a pose more relaxed than Kahlan had yet seen—

And then Darken lurched to his feet, plunging the Sword of Truth into the Mord'Sith's chest—

Kahlan tripped Jennsen Rahl, who hurried forward with a sharp cry of, "Denna!"

And then Darken's eyes met hers, and he said, "Run!" and Kahlan lost not a moment, but ran for all she was worth.

* * *

><p>Cara watched dispassionately as Denna was revived. So. Her old rival, First Mistress to Lord Rahl and his sister, Lady Jennsen, had muffed this particular man's training quite spectacularly.<p>

Cara was not above a little thrill of joy about that, but it certainly remained a question—what were they going to do about the Seeker?

If she could capture him herself, drag him to throw unceremoniously at Lord Rahl's feet, might she win the higher status that ought to be hers? Or would Lord Rahl merely find a way to give the credit to Denna, always his favorite?

Cara was wildly jealous of Denna, but she disapproved of the current situation for more professional reasons as well. Lord Rahl promoted people not for their competence or their loyalty, but some other personal quality too nebulous to quantify. He had an inner circle—one Cara wasn't part of.

It was unacceptable.

And then there was Lady Jennsen—it was common knowledge that she shared her brother's bed, and some vestige of Cara's village upbringing was horrified about that—not least because the Lady Jennsen was incredibly, delightfully delectable, from her sharp laugh to her black gloves ("Let Richard play the hero," she'd even been heard to say—although Lord Rahl showed little interest in heroics, "I _like_ being bad…") to her bright red hair, to her total disregard for physical harm (always a trait respected by the Mord'Sith).

Cara still remembered what Denna had said when Dahlia had unadvisedly scoffed at Lady Jennsen as "one of those hopelessly genteel wastes of space…" Denna had given Dahlia a quizzical look and asked, "Didn't you hear what she did to the Northern ambassador?" At Dahlia's query, "What Northern ambassador?" Denna had winked—"Exactly."

But there was something troubling Cara about the Seeker—the Confessor had been precisely what she would expect, or perhaps a trifle more cunning, but the Seeker—something about him caught at Cara's senses, telling her things that ought to be impossible.

For once in her life, she was going to have to do the research. Berdine knew all the details of the Rahl family tree—what Cara suspected was impossible, of course. But it wouldn't hurt to make sure.

* * *

><p>"I am so, so sorry I left you," Kahlan was saying, her blue eyes swimming with tears. "It won't happen again."<p>

"When Denna was torturing me," Darken said slowly. "I kept thinking about what you said…if I'm really a Rahl, shouldn't I be able to withstand the Mord'Sith? I think…" he stopped talking, a frown between his brows. Denna had been a torment—although an oddly familiar one—but he had caught himself making plans for subverting her to his own side. Kahlan would doubtless find the prospect of collaborating with a Mord'Sith unedifying, and then too, Denna struck Darken as being several arrows short of a quiver-full of sanity.

Kahlan's fingers worked their way under Darken's shirt, her shy touch electrifying, and he quickly lost track of anything but the feel of her in his arms.

"I couldn't Confess you," she said, and then—"Oh, Creator, Darken, I love you so much—"

"Are you sure?" he asked, remembering her hesitation—and suddenly, wildly thankful for the selfless impulse to save his sister that had put him in the path of Kahlan's touch—

"I've never been more sure of anything," Kahlan said, smiling against his lips.

* * *

><p>On the whole, Zedd approved of the Seeker and the Confessor—Darken and Kahlan. He'd always enjoyed being in the presence of the young, and of course the fact that they'd rescued him from certain death made them hard to dislike.<p>

He tried to block the memories of those endless years rotting in some D'Haran prison, but his thoughts circled agonizingly back to Panis far too often for comfort—to say nothing of those children. They were so young, and so—he vividly recalled that one visit, Richard Rahl cool and collected, his sister displaying an unseemly joy at her father's death—'long-overdue execution, I think," Richard Rahl had said.

It was terrible to think that they had a point, but Zedd would never have desired such an end to even a treacherous friend like Panis. And his children had made sure to make it clear they intended no relaxing of the policies that had once made Zedd berate his friend. Quite the reverse—look at them now, trying to conquer all the Midlands.

Trying—or succeeding? Only time could tell.

After the scare with Denna, about whom Darken had been remarkably uninformative (strange to think this was the same boy Zedd's father had believed would grow up to be an evil tyrant—might Caracticus have been mistaken about just _which_ brother…?), Zedd had hoped their next encounter with a Mord'Sith would be comfortably distant.

But it was less than a week later that she appeared.

One lone Mord'Sith, on foot, stalking toward them with the strangest ironic smile twisting her lips…

Kahlan had one hand around her dagger and the other stretched out in front of her as though it longed for the Mord'Sith's flesh, and the release of Confession—

Darken merely watched the Mord'Sith impassively.

She stopped just a few paces out of Kahlan's range, unsheathed her agiels, and threw them delicately to the ground, raising her gloved hands and wriggling her fingers at them.

Zedd mistrusted the mischievous look in her bright green eyes.

"Well?" Darken asked. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

"I am Mistress Cara, Lord Darken," the Mord'Sith said easily. "And I believe you and I can make a deal."

* * *

><p>"You can't be serious!" Kahlan's shriek was no less high and desperate for being a near-whisper. "A<em> Mord'Sith<em>?"

"If I'm going to wrest the throne from my brother," Darken explained as patiently as he could. "I'll need to deal with the Mord'Sith—besides, she may have valuable information."

"Then let me Confess her!" Kahlan returned at once. "Darken, after what Denna did to you—"

"Do you sense the same…" _danger? Obviously, or she wouldn't be so upset—"_hostility, from Cara?" Darken asked, catching Kahlan's hands in his. She clung to him in return, but glared up at him anyway.

"I can't read a Mord'Sith," Kahlan admitted grudgingly.

"Then let's find out the hard way," Darken muttered, willing to take the risk. He didn't mistake disarmed for harmless, but she was alone—and Cara had come here for a reason.

He gestured permission for Cara to explain further, keeping Kahlan's arm drawn through his. Her fingers kneaded his sleeve. She hadn't let go of him since their escape from Denna, an unexpected benefit of that unfortunate side journey.

"You are Lord Darken in your own right," Cara informed him. "The lost heir returned at last—you could be Lord Rahl."

"Are you offering to help me achieve this fate?" Darken asked carefully. It seemed a doom it was getting harder and harder to avoid—but how could he rule without first killing Richard Rahl? And worse, it might yet come to that, anyway—no matter what Darken's thoughts were on prophecy, he wasn't about to let Richard Rahl grind his people under a booted heel—and then there were the Boxes of Orden.

"When you are Lord Rahl, you will need a First Mistress," Cara said coolly. Her poise never cracked, for all she had discarded her weapons in the presence of a Confessor. She must be quite brave.

Darken had already unobtrusively ascertained she was alone—if this was a trap, it was a clever one.

"Very well," he said abruptly. "I accept your terms. What have you heard concerning the Boxes of Orden?"

Cara ignored Kahlan's barely vocalized hiss, and Darken put a proprietary and warning arm around her waist. Zedd merely looked wary.

"Lord Rahl goes to collect the third Box from the Queen of Tamarang," Cara replied. "You won't be able to intercept him on his way thither—obtaining the Box before he arrives—"

"—must be our first objective," Darken agreed, frowning. The horror it was possible to unleash using the Boxes of Orden was too much to contemplate.

They didn't really get down to strategy until Cara saluted Darken, rather ironically, and left.

"Do you really think we can trust her?" Zedd asked.

"Why not?" Darken shrugged. "She has an incentive to help us." _Besides,_ he thought irrelevantly, _I liked her._

* * *

><p>Zedd's plan of substituting an old spice box for the third Box of Orden went off without a hitch, thanks in large part to a courageous little girl named Rachel—after they'd seen her off to a good home, where she would be safe, or as safe as it was possible to be with Richard Rahl's tyranny hanging over them all like a doom, Kahlan snatched a quiet moment with Darken.<p>

Zedd had gone to put the third Box of Orden somewhere safe, somewhere no one would be able to retrieve it—surrounded by old and powerful deadly magic, called back to lethal life by Zedd's spells.

Kahlan sank down on a rock, looking vaguely off in the direction they'd sent Rachel, with her new family. Such a sweet and brave little girl.

"I think we might name our daughter Rachel," she mused, a hand going to her still-flat stomach almost by instinct.

Darken was at her side instantly. "You mean—?" he asked, eyes lighting with the same hope that made Kahlan feel as though gravity were operating at about half strength.

"I mean," she nodded, and he sank to his knees beside her, hands cradling her stomach.

Her own fingers threaded through his hair, in a smug pride of possession. He was her hero, the father of her child—all the hope of her future. She had even forgiven him for his newfound ally, the Mord'Sith Cara. He was right—they needed all the help they could get.

"You know," he said shakily, after a moment. "I've been meaning to ask you…assuming we win, I'm going to need a Queen—I don't suppose—?"

Kahlan sank down off her perch and embraced him, not caring that her dress was getting wrinkled, or that tears of happiness, and fear of that happiness being taken away, were gathering in her eyes. "Yes," was all she said, and then her lips met his—

* * *

><p>The Wizard had evaded the tracer cloud, but the other clouds he'd summoned as camouflage unfortunately marked his position, since Richard had assured them the weather should be fine all week. Unfortunately for the Wizard.<p>

Jennsen and her Mord'Sith arrived after he'd gone, but there was the Box of Orden, sitting innocently in the center of the green clearing.

A particularly ambitious young soldier, also part of Jennsen's escort, rushed forward to obtain the Box of Orden for her—and was instantly burned to cinders before their eyes. Old magic, it appeared.

Jennsen stepped forward, and walked quite calmly across the grass. She lifted the Box with both hands, and walked back out of the dangerous circle.

"Well," she said lightly, tossing her hair over one shoulder. Her eyes found Denna's. "That was easy."

Just then—doubtless a bit of karmic reprisal—the Box slipped from Jennsen's gloved fingers. She made a grab for it, but—

Mistress Cara caught the Box easily, leaning forward in order to reach—a brilliant flash of multi-colored light sped upwards, marking their location for leagues in every direction.

"My Lady," Mistress Cara said, and Jennsen took the proffered Box again, her eyes narrowing.

"Thank you, Mistress Cara," was all she said, however. Perhaps Richard might investigate his loyal Mord'Sith a little more closely. "Shall we adjourn to find my brother?"

* * *

><p>"Butterfingers," Denna accused, <em>sotto voce.<em>

Cara said nothing.

The situation was fast spiraling out of her control.

And yet she had never felt more sure of her choice to aid Lord Darken. She didn't know precisely what it was that bothered her about Lord Rahl and Lady Jennsen—only that it nagged at her with a persistence no Mord'Sith could tolerate.

Perhaps it was the Boxes of Orden, a form of power that ought to be wholly unnecessary—and which, in the hands of someone who truly wanted peace, would presumably put all the Mord'Sith out of work. There was no point to guards or warriors without enemies.

But the Rahl family would surely always have enemies.

Or perhaps it was simply that not everything could be broken out of a person. Dahlia was still an empath, Denna was still an artist—and Cara retained a somewhat archaic sense of justice.

If nothing else, Lord Darken was the elder brother—it was his right, and his responsibility, to reclaim the throne.

If she thought he would prove a better ruler than Lord Richard Rahl—all those Midlands connections, the strength he had displayed in resisting Denna's training, the wry kindness she sensed and, despite her training, could not despise—

Well. They would just have to see. If he couldn't follow the banner of magic she'd sent him, perhaps her plan was impossible.

* * *

><p>It didn't take Richard long to find Jennsen—it never did, despite the fact that scrying and other forms of magical tracking were completely ineffective on her—but even then, he sensed they didn't have much time.<p>

He would have preferred a more leisurely putting-together-of-the-Boxes, in the People's Palace, but it was clearly time to seize the moment—and be rid of the danger of his brother the Seeker at last.

Jennsen tossed the last Box to Richard in a perfectly choreographed moment—just as the Seeker, with his Confessor and his Wizard, appeared from out of the trees. Richard's Mord'Sith leapt to defend him—

He put the last Box in place—

Orden filled his blood, but then the Confessor slid to her knees in front of him and grasped his throat—

Confession was like an undertow, dragging him down—

The sharp pain of an agiel—he twisted round slightly and saw Mistress Cara—

Beyond the circle of magic, Jennsen stared, her eyes very blue in her suddenly white face—she looked so young, Richard thought, and then everything went gray.


	4. New Beginnings

**New Beginnings**

Darken had only moments—to think all his schemes for stopping Richard Rahl should have narrowed to this one impossible second—

Who knew what the magical maelstrom was doing to Kahlan at this very moment? Her and Cara's attempts to sabotage Richard Rahl claiming the power of Orden were heroic, but so far unsuccessful—

There was a flash, and then Cara pulled her agiel from Richard Rahl's neck and stared in what looked almost like temporal displacement—

There was no time—regretfully leaving Zedd to his own devices, and hoping Cara would protect him from the other Mord'Sith, Darken raised the Sword of Truth over his head—

And brought it down, not through Richard Rahl's chest (how could he bear to slay his own baby brother?) but through the middle of the Boxes of Orden.

Green fire, agonizing pain—only alleviated by Darken's firmly held conviction that his cause was just.

Dimly, he recognized that the Sword of Truth protected him somewhat—he accepted the mixed blessing without further analysis.

He could only pray the destruction of the Boxes of Orden would ensure a better world for Kahlan and their unborn daughter, not to mention Zedd, Cara, and the rest of the Midlands.

Ought he to have killed Richard Rahl?

He feared the answer.

* * *

><p>Kahlan was shaken by the sudden jolt, as the power of Orden broke—her own concentration shattered, and she fell backward, away from Richard Rahl. Long seconds, while she was too disoriented to sit up.<p>

Then she curved a protective hand over her stomach, for reassurance, and crawled to Darken's side.

His breathing was labored, and his skin had an unhealthy greenish tinge. Gently, she tugged the Sword of Truth out of his hands, noticing his palms were badly burned.

Hot tears filled her eyes. It just wasn't fair! After all they had been through together, to lose everything now?

They were going to be married, they were going to have a baby—

She'd never let herself hope for those things, while she was in Aydindril. But she'd always known she wanted them.

And secretly, she'd always known she'd wanted them with Darken.

She couldn't bear it if he died.

"Kahlan?" It was Richard Rahl, now standing hesitantly a little ways away, in the crowded clearing. The Mord'Sith were recovering their senses, closing in…

Kahlan was in no mood to register her enemy's use of her given name, or that odd hesitancy.

One hand curled around the hilt of Darken's Sword, without her conscious volition, and she turned to face the man who'd killed her lover, her eyes suddenly filled with blood instead of tears—

"Stay away from him," she ordered, in a voice entirely unlike her own. She glared indiscriminately at them all—Richard Rahl, Jennsen Rahl, the Mord'Sith, Mistress Cara, and even Zedd.

New strength seemed to fill her, and her power was everywhere, dancing like lightning on her skin.

They would pay for what they had done to Darken.

* * *

><p>Cara felt weary—impossibly so, since she and Richard had returned to the exact moment they had left—although there were subtle differences.<p>

Denna had not been part of Lord Rahl's chosen guard for this particular mission. She was disgraced and missing, and possibly dead, although one shouldn't indulge hope too far.

That red-haired waif was Lord Rahl's sister, also not supposed to be present.

Further, Darken looked at least a decade younger than he was supposed to, although he would have been handsome as ever if not for the faintly greenish cast to his skin. Also, he was dying.

Discounting Richard, who was staring in horror at his Confessor (what was she doing at Darken's side? Surely anything she could do now would be overkill?), Cara ran forward, dropping to her knees beside Darken.

The Confessor glared at her, but unaccountably didn't kill her—Cara was almost sorry, recognizing at a glance that here was a woman who would prove a worthy opponent, and also that those red eyes could betoken nothing good—

But she was filled with a desperate, aching sorrow she barely understood. Had she known helping Richard might bring about her own Lord Rahl's death? Of course, but what choice had she had? The thought of remaining in that past, alive with ghosts she didn't care for, not to mention Darken's father, had filled her with horror.

Removing her agiel from Richard's neck had been common sense—was she eager for another desperate slide sideways through time?

But because of her actions, Darken was dying.

Cara barely listened to the chaos around them, guessing her Sisters to be fighting Richard and his Confessor—they would do better to retreat and wait for a tactical moment, of course, but try explaining that to the newest and bloodthirstiest of Cara's sworn Sisterhood—

"My Lord?" she asked, tenderly. She drew her agiel and set it inches from her own chest, waiting for him to give the order for her to kill herself, for the treachery that had cost him his victory.

They would die together—it would be romantic.

Or should she wait, try to smuggle him away from the Seeker and revive him, when the poisonous green worked its way all through his blood?

"Everyone, STOP!" It was Richard, bellowing over the sounds of battle—Cara turned reluctantly, to see her Sisters fighting one another, the Confessor pointing threateningly at Richard, the Wizard looking completely lost—Denna and Lord Rahl's sister had disappeared (wise woman, Denna—but _why_ had Lord Rahl's sister suddenly materialized—?)

"Kahlan," said Richard. "You're in the Con Dar. I need you to calm down and listen to me. What are you doing with Rahl, why was Jennsen here, why in the name of the Creator are you protecting _him_—and what the _Underworld_ IS GOING ON?"

All, Cara was forced to acknowledge, extremely good questions.

* * *

><p>Richard would never forget the moment Kahlan turned on him, protecting Darken Rahl of all people—<p>

He felt the waves of Confession streaming from her like heat from a cooking fire, engulfing the Mord'Sith behind him—luckily, since otherwise they'd all be killed for sure, never mind the Boxes of Orden, twisted into strange shapes and flickering with eerie green fire, or Darken Rahl struggling to breathe, hovered over by both Kahlan and Cara—

Zedd was standing well back, looking…disapproving?

Richard hoped Kahlan was refraining from Confessing him out of the love they shared, but doubted it—her eyes were entirely red, blood streaming like tears down her cheeks, and her hand curled toward him in a strange frustration, as though she could physically bend him to his knees, the devoted phrases of the Confessed on his lips—

Richard was horrified. He felt like he'd just woken in a nightmare, and was prey to an irrational sense of foul play—_this _was not how he'd left things, subjective weeks and objective seconds ago.

"Everyone STOP!" he shouted, and Kahlan glared at him even more ferociously—the Mord'Sith didn't pay him any attention, and he had a horrid suspicion that they were killing each other—

Helplessly, Richard burst out with every question that had been tormenting him since he'd seen the hatred in Kahlan's beautiful eyes turned against him. "—and what the _Underworld_," he finished strongly, "IS GOING ON?"

"Richard," said Darken Rahl.

Instantly, Kahlan dropped Richard's Sword and bent over the prone body of the man Richard had_ thought_, last time he checked, was their arch-enemy, her hair falling in a curtain around his face. "Darken?" she asked tenderly.

Richard wanted to pick up the Sword of Truth, but something told him more violence would be a mistake. (It was Kahlan's eyes…)

Instead, he moved closer, reflecting that Cara was unlikely to attack him, after all they'd been through together…Now that he got a better look, he saw Darken Rahl was much younger than he remembered.

That convinced him, more than anything else, that more had changed than he would have thought possible.

"Promise me," Darken Rahl said hoarsely. "You will leave Kahlan and Zedd alone—I swear, if you harm them, I will _haunt_ you."

"What?" Richard said blankly. He wasn't the one who was going to harm Kahlan and Zedd—had the world gone completely insane?

* * *

><p>"Are you not Richard Rahl, scourge of the Midlands and tyrant wizard-king of D'Hara?" Zedd asked mildly.<p>

Richard Rahl—or rather the kind-looking young man who seemed to have replaced him—repeated himself more strongly. "_What?_"

"I thought as much," Zedd murmured, in somewhat scholarly—satisfaction would be too strong a word, but certainly something was different about this Richard Rahl. In fact, there was something in his face that seemed familiar—Taralynn's buried goodness, emerging in her son at last? Where had Zedd seen Richard Rahl before—under much different circumstances than that night in his cell—?

Unfortunately, the other one—that girl, Jennsen Rahl, the one he would never, ever admit was his granddaughter—had faded into the trees. _This _was hardly the easy victory she had imagined, no doubt.

But why had Darken hesitated? If only he'd killed Richard Rahl, they would be done with this, once and for all—

"My name is Richard Cypher," said this other Richard Rahl. "And I'm the Seeker of Truth." He eyed the Sword, abandoned on the charred grass, somewhat wistfully.

"_I_," Darken said drily, then had to pause for a wracking cough, "am the Seeker of Truth. Lord Richard Rahl."

Zedd, watching Richard _Cypher_, did not at once realize Cara's consternation—"Queen Nila—" she said, meeting Richard Cypher's eyes, clearly stricken—

Zedd shut his own eyes against a sudden storm of memories, long-buried—Panis, Nila, Darken, _Taralyn_—

* * *

><p>The Queen—yes! Richard knelt beside Darken Rahl, Cara scrambling out of his way, although she laid a hand on his arm—<p>

"Haven't you done enough?" Kahlan demanded bitterly.

"What are you doing?" asked Zedd. That cool, professional tone was almost more heart-breaking than Kahlan's hostility—Richard had known Zedd all his life, and now—

"I can heal you," Richard told his arch-enemy, looking down into bright, intelligent blue eyes.

"Why would you do that?" Darken Rahl asked, still surprisingly coherent for someone in whose veins ran the green fires of the Underworld.

Luckily, since Richard had no answer (save the identical fear and sorrow on Kahlan and Cara's faces—he would make Kahlan happy if it tore the heart from his chest, and as Cara was always telling him, he couldn't resist a damsel in distress), Zedd asked practically, "How? Do you have any idea of the power it would take to exorcise the Keeper, after that show of misguided heroics?"

Richard didn't, but he didn't care. In his (admittedly, brief) experiments with his magic, he had yet to find a limit to his powers. Besides, he had a nasty feeling it wouldn't be the last time he had to exorcise the Keeper. A divinely hostile interest in his quest would explain a _lot_.

He spread his hands over Darken Rahl's chest, not quite touching, and shut his eyes.

It was harder to concentrate, this time. For one thing, Kahlan's mistrust had really shaken Richard. He knew this wasn't the world he had left, that something had happened to change everything—but this was _Kahlan_. Even now, her power remained a harsh scrape across his inner senses, a pulling energy beside him. He wasn't sure why it had yet to drag him under.

He called the green fire from Darken Rahl's veins—it ignited his own, but he suppressed it. This was no harder than becoming the Seeker had been—both times, he had been faced suddenly with a new and impossible situation.

But this time, when Richard opened his eyes, he saw life returned, given instead of taken. It was such an intoxicating feeling—saving a life—that Richard could almost forget that this was Darken Rahl.

* * *

><p>Darken sat up, feeling light-headed. His fingers clutched the Sword of Truth, which he used as a prop to rise to his feet.<p>

Instantly, Kahlan was in his arms, weeping and nearly knocking him to the ground again—"Thank the Creator, you're all right," she murmured, over and over. "I thought I lost you."

Darken stroked her hair soothingly, gratitude that she was safe—or as safe as anyone could be, in a world that still had Richard Rahl in it—rendering him temporarily speechless.

"I _know _I've lost you," murmured Cara, and Darken looked at her sharply. The wistful note in her voice sparked something within him, though he wasn't sure what. Their deal had been purely business—he did her the justice to believe she honestly thought he would make a better Lord Rahl than Richard, and before today would have agreed in an instant, seeing as how he could hardly do worse—but nothing in that would justify her sorrow.

Her fear, perhaps—Richard Rahl still lived. Or did he? The man who'd ordered the attack on Kahlan's home, Zedd's execution, Darken's torture at Denna's hands, would hardly have helped them now.

Hesitantly, Richard held out a hand. Equally hesitantly, Darken took it. "I really am the Seeker of Truth," Richard said with forced lightness. "I think we need to talk."

"So if, in your reality," Darken said slowly, after Richard finally ran down, his story occasionally corroborated by a few low-voiced words from Cara, "I am the tyrant that you are in mine—"

At his side, in the circle of five around the flickering fire, Kahlan shook her head vehemently, as though she could not believe it—beyond their circle, the dark water glinted with the light of the coming dawn. They would have to think about food, soon.

Strange, to think he might eat with his brother, just as though they were a family—but it wouldn't do to discount his sister. She remained firmly from this reality, after all—what might she do, to get her own Richard back?

"—where do you suppose Richard Rahl, and his Mistress Cara, are right now?" Darken asked.

Richard looked stricken. "Kahlan—" he gasped.

She glared at him, even now only conditionally reconciled to his bewildering shift from enemy to ally.

Cara laughed, bitter and almost hysterical.

What was the logical next step? Darken pictured himself dragging them all home to Mother—"Look who I found on my travels!" Or ought he to arm-wrestle Richard for the throne of D'Hara?

But he wanted to go home, for the wedding, at least. He pulled Kahlan closer against him, telling her without words how thankful he was. More than Richard or Jennsen, the siblings he barely knew, she was his family.

"I love you, Kahlan," he whispered against her hair.

"And I love you," she whispered back. There were still a few drops of blood drying on her cheeks, grass stains and ash on her skirts—she had never been so beautiful.

Darken curved a hand over her stomach, source of their secret joy—and caught Richard looking at him with eyes blazing with jealousy.

The first light of dawn burst over the horizon, picking up the gold in Cara's hair, the sparkle of the Sword of Truth, smoothing the wrinkles briefly from Zedd's face—it was not an ending, in spite of the clearing full of dead bodies and the remains of the Boxes of Orden they'd left behind.

It was a beginning. But a beginning of what?

* * *

><p>Elsewhere…no, elsewhen, Mistress Cara decided. Definitely an elsewhen. This was the same clearing in which Lord Richard Rahl had put together the Boxes of Orden, and then Lord Darken, Lord Rahl that would be, had raised his Sword, too far to do anything in time, and his Confessor had put her hand around Lord Rahl's throat—<p>

Cara had known it was too late, but something about Lord Darken made her unable to hesitate, and she had pressed her own agiel to Lord Rahl's neck—

And now they were here. In the middle of nowhere. Even the sky was gray.

"Come," Lord Rahl ordered. "We must determine the cause of this…extremely unfortunate detour."

It didn't take them long to come across the pathetic remnants of civilization—at Lord Rahl's airy hand wave, Cara took over the task of getting the first old man they'd met to tell him everything he knew.

"Lord Darken Rahl and Queen Kahlan, eh?" Lord Rahl mused, his tone deceptively mild. "I knew he was trying to usurp my place…but who would have thought those two hopeless do-gooders would make such a mess of things, letting a male Confessor rule…?" He fell silent, and Cara knew he was wondering what had happened to Lady Jennsen—the one person he cared for more than anyone.

She felt as hurt as if Lord Darken and his Confessor had betrayed her trust on purpose—they were supposed to be good for D'Hara! What had they been thinking—?

Had she been wrong to trust them—Lord Darken—in the first place?

So it now appeared—and who knew what she might gain, if she could convince Lord Rahl her interruption had been accidental—he would hardly have wanted to be Confessed, even had he possessed the power of Orden—Denna was not here, and Cara was. Perhaps this was her chance to be First Mistress, after all?

If they found a way to return to their own time, of course.

"We will journey to the People's Palace," Lord Rahl decided. "I will see this usurper of my rightful throne for myself."

* * *

><p>Jennsen was dead, of course—Richard was grateful to find her buried in the family crypt, if a little confused as to why the Seeker would grant her even that honor.<p>

The Palace was deserted, except for an old woman wearing a Rada'Han, who greeted Richard like an old friend, and only eyed Mistress Cara askance in the way anyone familiar with the Mord'Sith would.

Mistress Cara was a problem Richard meant to solve, but not until he could return to his own time. He sensed that he had kept her subordinate for too long—she needed a greater challenge.

Perhaps, he thought as he listened to the old woman's recitation of his heroic deeds (all of which were either unfamiliar, or performed by his despised brother Darken, the Seeker), and her plan for how he might ensure this future never came to be, he might even turn his brother's allies, the Wizard and the Confessor, to his own purpose. It seemed that in this world, they served _him_, after all.

There was no need to reveal his true identity to them—let them think they had recovered their precious, naïve Seeker of Truth. And with the Confessor, the Wizard, and Mistress Cara by his side—he knew a way to gain more power than even the Boxes of Orden would ever have given him.

_I will avenge you, Jennsen,_ he thought, in the direction of her tomb. _I will give you a funeral pyre worthy of you—that I swear._

The world would never know what had happened.

And Richard Rahl smiled, in anticipation of the day he would bring about his inner vision—all the world mourning, as he did.

"My Lord?" Mistress Cara inquired diffidently.

Richard said, "I have a plan," and marveled at the understatement.

Darken Rahl might have decided to join the family business, but Richard had been born and raised here.

And that would make all the difference.


End file.
